


The Ones That Come Easy

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: I Will Wait for You [8]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Starvation, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Assassin Clint, Barney is a good bro, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Brainwashing, But the story doesn’t end in one, Clint’s Barton’s abusive childhood, Cockwarming, Comeplay, Dehumanization, Dom Phil Coulson, Dream sequence Grant Ward/Phil and Jane Foster/Phil, Framework, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, I’m not that cruel, M/M, Master/Slave, Mind Control, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Prostitution, References to Abusive Childhood, References to mutilation/amputation, Reluctant Master, Rimming, Self Indulgent Cameos from Other Fandoms, Sex worker Grant, Sub Clint Barton, Sub Grant Ward, Suicidal Ideation, chapter cliffhangers, minor Bloodplay, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Breaking Clint’s body free had been the easy part. Now they have to see how much they can save of the rest of him.Hopefully, that will also save Phil, and everyone else, too.
Relationships: Barney Barton & Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Grant Ward, Clint Barton/John Garrett, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: I Will Wait for You [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580395
Comments: 147
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well I came home  
> Like a stone  
> And I fell heavy into your arms  
> These days of dust  
> Which we've known  
> Will blow away with this new sun  
> — Mumford and Sons: I will wait for you
> 
> Logan: I thought our story was epic, you know. You and me.  
> Veronica: Epic how?  
> Logan: Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined and bloodshed. Epic.  
> …  
> Veronica: C’mon, ruined lives, bloodshed? You really think a relationship should be that hard?  
> Logan: No one writes about the ones that come easy.  
> — Veronica Mars: Look Who's Stalking (2.20)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this fic is the morning following Clint’s rescue, once they get home things pick up speed.

The slut wakes up somewhere warm and comfortable and for a moment isn’t sure it’s actually awake. Then it remembers escaping with its new Master and the most amazing night of its life. 

Master says it’s not a slut anymore, it’s a pet. And, though it’s sure it will mess up soon and be downgraded, for now it will try to enjoy being his pet while it lasts. 

There are several strange things about waking up as Master’s pet. For one, it doesn’t wake up in a Drop, but it’s missing headache isn’t as strange as wearing so many clothes. It may not have earned them, contrary to what Master said last night, but it still feels a sense of unearned pride; and then there’s the soft bed and the awe at being allowed under the covers; but by far the strangest thing is the way Master is still wrapped around it, as if unable to let it go, even in sleep. 

Its mind feels crystal clear, its eyesight is more acute and the low sounds of birds outside are clear instead of the slightly muffled sound it’s used to. It’s skin pricks with pain when the pet moves and it can feel each individual cut and bruise. It reaches up to Master’s mark at the join of its shoulder and presses down. The pain is bright and sharp and _real_. 

Everything about his new master is better. 

It basks in the comfort as long as it can, staying in Master’s arms, but the pet knows it’s duty, it needs to be Master’s cockwarmer now that it is awake and it’s already slept too long, the low sound of birdsong and the shifting shadows telling it that sunrise is coming soon. It blames sleeping in the bed, as if it were some kind of person. Tonight the pet will be sure to stay awake until Master has gone to sleep so that it can slip out of bed and sleep in its place on the floor where it belongs. 

The morning ritual with its former Master always helped clear its headache and ease its pain but this morning will be even better; without its morning nausea to worry about the pet can fully enjoy serving Master.

It’s never felt Up like this before. It’s almost like how it feels with a bow in its hands. Being with Master might even be better than shooting. The pet feels a greater sense of worship for Master than it thought possible. 

It turns in Master’s arms, he makes a little disgruntled noise but lets the pet move. It slides down under the covers and once its face is even with Master’s cock the pet carefully pulls it and his balls out of Master’s underwear. 

It knows better than to indulge itself but it can’t resist taking a moment to inhale Master’s scent and rub its left, uninjured cheek against his soft cock before taking it into its mouth, just the weight of it is enough to cause its own cock to stiffen.

_Phil’s with Barton and they’re somewhere soft and warm and naked; celebrating having found one another again._

_Barton props himself up over Phil on one hand and is holding Phil’s dick loosely with the other, giving it an occasional lazy stroke, toying with Phil. Phil loves it when he gets into a teasing mood; when Phil’s able to give him a little rope to play with just to see what he’ll do._

_“Miss me, babe?” Barton smirks._

_“More than anything.”_

_Barton licks his lip and then pulls it through his teeth provocatively, squeezing his hand around Phil’s dick as he does so, “Tell me what you want.”_

_“Oh, fuck, Clint…”_

_“You can do better than that, Coulson,” Clint says as he starts to stroke his hand up and down Phil’s dick._

_“I want you.”_

_“I’m gonna need more than that,_ Phil _.”_

_“Oh, oh fuck,” there’s nothing quite like the sound of his name on Clint Barton’s mouth; he knows exactly what it does to Phil and he wields the knowledge with as much proficiency as he does everything else._

_“You said that already. Maybe I’ll just take what I want. Slick you up and ride you. Would you like that Phil?” Fuck, Phil loves it when Clint gets kinky._

_“Please,” Phil growls, trying to play along when all he wants to do is pin Clint to the bed and devour him with his mouth, Order him to stay still so that Phil can do all kinds of terrible, wonderful things to his submissive._

_Clint’s eyes flutter the way they do anytime he hears Phil beg. Phil knows it hits all of Clint’s dirty/bad/but oh so good buttons and pressing each other’s buttons is what they live for._

_“Please, Clint, I need you,” it’s more of a demand than a plea and he can see the way it goes straight to Clint’s dick._

_“Come on, Phil, tell me what you need, what you want. Tell me how I can_ serve _you.”_

_“Oh God, Clint, fuck, you can’t just— Jesus! Fuck.”_

_“Want my mouth? Want me to suck you, swallow you down til I taste like you, so that you can kiss the taste of your come out of my mouth while you fill my ass with your fingers? So you can play with me until you’re hard again and ready to fuck me, until I’m coming around your dick?”_

_God, he has such a filthy, beautiful, mouth. Phil loves him so much._

_“That. Oh fuck, baby, that. Give me your mouth, let me feel your tongue worship my dick.”_

_And then Clint’s mouth is around him, taking him in and sucking him down._

It isn’t long before Master’s cock begins to grow, and soon the pet is giving Master his morning blowjob, sucking and licking as it bobs its head, it’s own erection forgotten as it concentrates on pleasing Master. 

Suddenly Master’s hands are in the pet’s hair, moving its head in his own rhythm.

_Phil threads his fingers through Clint’s hair just the way he likes and guides his head up and down as he licks and sucks Phil’s dick._

“Oh God, Clint!”

The pet jerks and moans in pain at the Forbidden word but keeps sucking, using its tongue to massage Master’s cock as he fucks its slut face. 

_He opens up beautifully for Phil, holding his hands behind his back as he lets Phil take control. Clint gags himself on Phil’s dick, asking for more and Phil gives it to him, fisting his hands in Clint’s hair and roughly fucking his throat as Clint whimpers and moans._

Master is rougher and rougher and the pet feels itself settle like it normally does with its morning service, all the sharp edges begin to blur. Master starts thrusting into its throat and all it can do is endure; he’s relentless and the pet feels it’s split lip sting as it reopens, the taste of blood mixing with the slick taste of Master’s precum. 

“Oh fuck, that’s it sweetheart, take it, take it for me, so perfect, need you, missed you so much,” the pet feels itself start to slip Down as Master uses it but it knows it’s only for Master to decide if it gets to go Down and so it resists the Pull; it’s a good s— pet, it can be good for Master. 

“Oh, Clint,” Master moans and this time the shock of the Forbidden word causes it to choke on Master’s cock. It whines in fear; only bad sluts choke without permission and it had been doing so well. It feels it’s slut nature take over as fear and arousal flow through it, it’s hard cock dripping slut juice into the sheets and it thrusts uselessly into the air, once, then again before it gets control of itself.

_One moment it’s gloriously perfect and the next Clint’s choking, not the exaggerated show he sometimes likes to put on but really choking and his whimper of pleasure becomes a whine of fear and Phil would never harm him, never make him make that sound but it also makes him feel like a god and—_

The dream slides into reality, his hands are in Clint’s hair and Clint’s choking on his dick and for a split second he wants nothing more to come down his sumbissive’s throat; then he’s wide awake and horrified. 

Suddenly Master’s dragging it off his cock by its hair, pulling it out from under the sheet as Master Orders, “ _No_!”

Its world shatters as it’s pushed Down, Down deep. It doesn’t know up from down or left from right, it feels like it’s being turned inside out and back again and all the time Master’s rebuke echoes through it, the only thing that’s real, the depth of his displeasure killing its erection like plunging into icy water.

Fuck. Phil didn’t mean to use his Voice like that, to push Clint Down, it was the shock of coming out of the dream to this… This.

The slut sobs into the nothing/everything, “It’s sorry Master, it didn’t mean to choke. Please, please, let it try again?”

**The world is his.**

“No!” Phil snarls before he can stop himself, more to himself than to Clint, barely resisting the urge to make it an Order. He refuses to use Clint for his own pleasure, the thought of Claiming him while he’s in this broken state is horrifying. 

It’s hard not to let Clint finish what he started; the Hunger to use his Voice pulls at him like a drug and he wants to Order Clint to suck Phil’s dick until he’s swallowing Phil’s come, until Phil can pull out and come on his face as well, marking Clint inside and out as his. 

**_His._ **

Phil still feels an unholy satisfaction from having killed with his Voice and once his inner demon was let loose it had taken all of his Will to bring it back to heel. Even then he wasn’t entirely successful. 

He knows better than to let his Dominance rule him; the more he gives in to his Need to dominate the stronger the siren call of his darkest urges gets. Given the chance, his Hunger will feed on itself until that’s all that’s left of Phil. He can’t let it get to the point where he no longer controls it or it will control him. He knows how dangerous that would be, not just for him but for the world. 

More importantly, for Clint. 

Clint has already had his free will taken from him; it’s now Phil’s responsibility to help him gain it back, not take advantage of his loss. 

The slut— it was stupid to imagine it could ever really be Master’s pet— flinches and huddles in on itself. It can feel Master’s disapproval piercing it through the fog and it struggles to climb back Up to where there’s an existence beyond Master’s censure. 

As often as the slut has made him angry in the short time he has owned it, he has never been _this_ angry. Master’s breath is as heavy as the weight of his eyes and it’s crushing the slut. 

Master’s grip relaxes and he smooths the slut’s hair; which helps it come Up a little more. 

Phil only lets Clint go when he’s sure Clint won’t try to put his mouth back on Phil’s dick, he knows he won’t have the willpower to stop Clint a second time. He takes a couple of deep breaths and works on calming his heart rate and getting his erection to subside. 

He uses his thumb to wipe away the spit and blood from Clint’s lip and absently cleans his fingers on the sheet as he coaxes Clint to put his head down on Phil’s chest and he lets Clint cry against him. 

The slut sniffs, trying to keep its filthy tears from getting all over Master’s shirt.

“I need you to promise me you won’t ever do that again.”

“If it pleases—”

“No, Cl— Pet,” Phil almost forgot himself. He needs to do a better job of calling Clint ‘Pet’; it’s what Clint asked to be called; he just needs to learn to ignore the sick twist of pleasure it gives him, “That isn’t good enough. I need you to say the words.”

“Yes, Master,” Pet? If Master is still calling the slut his pet he must not be that mad, “Your pet promises, it will never do that again. It will be good,” it says, its breath hitching as its sobbing begins to ebb. 

The pet knows it won’t always be able to keep itself from choking but maybe that’s the point, maybe Master _wants_ to punish it for choking? The next time it chokes maybe Master will even Punish it by having it choke to death on his cock. 

Such an easy death would be a priceless Gift. 

It knows better than to speculate, it will find out the hard way whether Master really doesn’t want it to choke or if he wants it to choke so he can punish it. 

“You are good, sweetheart,” the little trill of praise is nothing against the echoing _‘_ No!~No!~No!’ of Master’s Order that still reverberates in its brain. The joy it would normally feel is soured by knowing the praise is a lie. If it really was a good pet it wouldn’t make Master so angry all the time. 

Master quietly adjusts his softening cock back into his underwear, further proof that what it knows is true, it’s still a worthless slut. How can it even pretend to be Master’s pet if Master doesn’t want to use it for one of the few things it’s made for? If Master doesn’t want to use one of its holes, that only leaves being Master’s pain slut. 

“Master?” It slurs, still Down despite its best efforts; it blinks away the tears as it gathers its resolve. It has to do better. It has to be better. It feels like it’s ripping its mind in two, but it’s able to force itself Up; it’s right on the edge of a Drop, but better that than the alternative. 

Maybe if it can do a passable job of taking Master’s pain he will let the pet show him that, despite this fuck up, it really is a well trained cocksucker?

Phil sighs, pretty sure he knows what’s coming as he says, “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Master, may it ask for punishment?” 

“No, baby.” 

The ‘no’ is softer this time; softer than the refrain of ‘ _No!’_ that wants to drag it back Down. It tries to think of anything it can do to appease its Master, “May it use its hand to satisfy you, Master?” It asks, walking its fingers down Master’s chest. 

Phil’s breathing has evened out and now he sighs deeply under Clint’s cheek and he stops Clint’s hand “No. I won’t use you like that, not after— after everything that’s happened. Not until you’re better. We’ll… we’ll call it a rule. You’re to keep your hands to yourself.”

Maybe, hopefully, they’ll be able to get Clint’s mind back and Phil will have his sub back.

The pet knew it had been bad, for all that Master had called it good. It knows it needs to be a better pet. It’s been a worthless slut for so long, it hopes it can learn to be the good pet Master wants it to be. That it _wants_ to be. 

Even though wanting things is dangerous. 

At least now it knows it’s punishment. Master is taking away the privilege of being allowed to touch him. If it is lucky (not that it is ever lucky) it will earn it back soon. 

The pet knows from experience that it can get sick and even die if it goes long enough without properly worshipping its Master. It hopes Master will at least cum on it but if it isn’t worthy of being his cum rag maybe there is still a chance Master will hurt it, letting it serve in some small way. 

Though, for all of Master’s talk of not allowing the pet to touch him, he’s holding it as close as possible. The pet thinks it will never understand it’s strange, wonderful, perplexing Master. 

Maybe the rule means it has to earn the right to touch his cock with its hands; that it will only be allowed to use its holes to please him?

Please let that be it.

As it is, Master denying it even a chance to beg for his cum this morning is almost worse than losing the privilege of using its hands to please him.

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” Master says implacably. 

“Yes, Master.”

“I shouldn't have lost control the way I did last night.”

The pet knew it hadn’t earned all of Master’s wonderful touches; it had tried not to let itself hope to feel Master’s fingers be so gentle inside it ever again. 

“I promise, if I can’t learn to keep a tighter rein on myself I’ll find someone else who can take care of you until you can be on your own,” it may kill Phil to do it but he will if that’s what’s best for Clint.

It’s obvious that Master isn’t used to having a slut as a pet, but it never imagined there would be such severe consequences for Master’s innate kindness, “Oh, no Master! Please no!”

It cringes at its insolence but it can’t take it back or apologize. Let Master punish it any other way, it will endure any torment as long as it belongs to Master, “Please don’t throw away your pet, it loves you, Master; it will do anything for you.”

Phil has spent more time than is sane over the last couple of months imagining what it would be like to hear Clint finish his interrupted declaration, to hear Clint say ‘I love you’ and to be able to say it back; and to have it twisted like this burns him so deeply— the wound it causes will never heal. 

“Please keep your pet? Please?” The pet clings to Master as it begs, knowing that by all rights Master should be kicking it to the floor.

Phil closes his eyes as he feels a wave of pain and sorrow and even a little loneliness and he hugs Clint, “Oh, baby, no,” he never meant for Clint to feel unwanted.

Master sounds so sad and it thinks Master may even be crying, which doesn’t make any sense, but then Master says and does a lot of things that don’t make sense, “Please, please Master? It will be good, Master. Please keep your pet? Please let it be yours?”

“Cl— Pet, sweetheart,” Phil sighs and then blinks away his tears as he gets a hold of himself, hugging Clint tighter, “I said that you were mine as long as you want and I meant it. Until the day you don’t want me anymore, I’m yours.”

He’ll just have to find a way to control himself when that day comes. He needs to prepare himself for the possibility that once Clint has his mind back he won’t want anything to do with Phil, or any dominant for that matter. 

Though that’s cold comfort. 

“Your pet will always want you, Master.”

Phil rests his cheek on the top of Clint’s head.

“We’ll see,” he says, holding and petting Clint, needing to ground himself. 

Eventually the pet works up the courage to ask, “Master?”

“Yes, Pet,” this time Phil manages to not slip on the name.

“May your pet beg for the honor of your collar, Master?”

A pained sound escapes Phil and he thinks of the buckle tucked safely away in his duffle bag. Someday, maybe, he’ll be able to ask Clint if he will accept it. For now, if having a collar will make Clint feel more secure, then Phil will get him a new one; he’ll be damned if he’ll use that horrible posture collar. 

“I’m not putting that thing back on you,” Phil says with all the animosity he feels towards it. 

It’s tears had mostly dried but now it feels them prick it’s eyes again. It knew it wasn’t worthy. It may never be but it has to ask, “May… May it earn the privilege to beg for it, Master?”

“Giving my preferences I’d rather burn it than ever let it touch your skin again but I’ll let you decide what to do with it when you’re ready. In the meantime we can find something that works for both of us.”

Stupid pet. It’s collar belonged to its former Master, of course Master wouldn't want to use that. “Thank you, Master. If it would please you to burn—”

“Not now, Pet. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Master?”

“Yes, Pet?” Phil can’t quite hold back a sigh. 

It knows it may make Master very angry but it asks anyway, “If… if you reset your pet then it could be marked by only you, Master.”

“No. No more resets.”

The pet shivers at the steel in Master’s voice, but the hand that cups its head against his chest is gentle, “If it pleases you, Master.”

“Sweetheart,” Phil says, “I swear on everything holy, you will never be put through that again.”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil can’t help but to check and see that his Order from last night is intact; he dare not repeat it, the risk of losing himself is too great, but he has to be sure, “Do you remember what I Made you promise me last night?”

The pet shivers and feels the vibrations of Master’s Command in its bones as it answers, “It will not kill itself.”

“Good. You're not allowed to die. That’s the most important rule. Am I clear?” 

Clint doesn’t remember it but it’s an old argument, one that came up after every mission in which Barton almost got himself killed. So, really, every mission. Phil never dared to make it an Order before; if he had, Barton would have been out the door in a heartbeat, no matter how strong the pull between them. 

He knows even without his Voice Clint will take this as a command and it feels like cheating but that doesn’t stop him.

He hears a memory of Barton saying, _‘Fuck you, asshole; you don’t get to decide what risks I take, its_ my _life’_ , and even this new, broken Clint resists, saying, “If it pleases you, Master.”

Master’s voice holds a warning, “Pet.”

“...Yes, Master. Your pet is not allowed to die,” it says quietly. It feels a flash of fear, if Master never Punishes it, if it is never worthy of Master’s Gift, it will have to live with any damage it earns. It will have to be more careful than ever not to become meat. It doesn’t even want to consider what existence will be like after that. Even at his most cruel, it's former Master always let it die eventually and it belatedly realizes it should have been even more grateful than it was for its resets. For all his kindness, it thinks in his own way, Master is the more terrifying of the two. 

If— _when_ Clint gets back to his old self he can kick Phil's ass for extracting that promise but for now Phil pushes down any guilt he may feel, smothering it with his need to Protect Clint. 

If Master won’t reset it, maybe he will at least allow some modifications to its markings, “Master?”

Master sighs again and presses the pet’s captured hand over his heart; it’s comforted by the strong and steady beat, “Yes, Pet?”

“Someday, will you change your pet’s tattoos and jewelry? Please Master? Your pet should only be marked by you, Master.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t have anything that will get through the jewelry here. Can you wait? I’m sure I have something at home that will take care of it. I’m not sure about the tattoos; we’ll have to see what your options are.”

It knows it should stop asking, stop pressing, but it also knows that being bad is part of its nature, “Could… could you just reprogram it, Master?”

Master goes very still and he’s quiet for several long seconds, the pet is about to apologize when Master says, “Sweetheart, there’s a lot about the Framework you need to know but it’s not safe right now. I’m sorry, I want to tell you everything, but it will have to wait until we get home.”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

_“I swear, Cas. This is real.”_

_Cas looks at Phil with what might be the first glimmer hope, “I believe you.”_

The sound of that gunshot will haunt Phil for the rest of his life. 

Phil holds Clint closely; he’s too afraid of how Clint will react once he knows he’s out of the Framework. He tells himself he’s just waiting until they’re in a safe environment and he’s had a chance to clear it with a professional but really he doesn’t know if he will ever be ready to take that risk. 

The pet is intensely curious but even as dumb as it is it knows to not ask any questions right now. With no more resets, any punishment could be worse than death. 

Of course, punishment should be coming sooner rather than later. Not only has it screwed up so many times with its typical worthless slut behavior, it can’t seem to stop pushing. Soon it will ask one question too many and Master will _have_ to punish it. 

At least then it will know the extent of Master’s patience, as well as his preferred type of punishment. It hopes Master will keep its body mostly intact; it knows how much harder it is to serve with missing limbs or, even worse, missing senses. If it is lucky, the Master will only want to scar it as a permanent lesson. 

Part of it wants to wear Master’s scars, to have a visible sign of his ownership. It knows better than to be guilty of such selfishness but it can’t help itself. 

“Unless you want soup for breakfast, one of us is going to need to go out for food.”

“Master?” It asks, confused. Breakfast is the grey flavorless paste it’s allowed if it performs its morning service well and it obviously hasn’t earned that, much less something as precious as soup. 

“I’m kidding; sort of. We do need real food. We also have errands that need to be done before we have to get to the airport in,” Phil checks his watch it’s not even seven, his alarm won’t go off until nine; with as late as they had been up he had scheduled for them to sleep in, “Wow, it’s still early.”

“Your pet is sorry, Master, it should have asked what time you wanted to be woken up.”

“It’s fine, baby,” Phil says, petting Clint’s hair, “But since my alarm won’t go off for a couple of hours what’s say we get a little more sleep and then we can worry about breakfast at nine? If you’re hungry now there should be a couple protein bars in the aftercare kit.”

“Master?” It doesn’t understand. Not about it being stupid and waking Master up too early but about the protein bars. Just because it’s hungry doesn’t mean it should eat. It’s old Master always said keeping it hungry meant it would always be eager to please and it knows it needs all the help it can get.. 

“Here,” Phil shifts them so that he can lean over Clint grab the canvas tote holding the aftercare supplies, “I could have sworn— ah ha! I knew I saw one of these. They used to be your favorite,” he holds out the protein bar while dropping the kit to the floor on his side of the bed.

“Master?”

It’s too early for this. Phil’s pretty sure if he hears Clint say Master with that subservient disbelief one more time his head is going to explode. Then again, it’s enough of a shadow of Clint’s snarky ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding’ attitude that he doesn’t want to discourage it. He sighs and unwraps the protein bar and holds it out to Clint again, “Eat. If nothing else then because I said so.”

“But Master—”

“Oh, right,” Phil interrupts Clint, remembering how he insisted Phil take the first bite, and takes a bite of the protein bar. Barton wasn’t wrong about this flavor, it’s not half bad.

“Your turn,” he says, holding out the bar. Instead of taking it from Phil’s hand, Clint leans over and takes a small bite; minuscule honestly, especially since Phil’s seen him put three whole bars in his mouth at once before. 

The pet moans and feels it’s lip quiver; it’s one of the best things it’s ever tasted and it tries to place the flavor. It’s like chocolate but not. It eventually realizes the other flavor is coffee and it looks at the bar with wide eyes. Sluts don’t get coffee. 

“M...Master? It tastes like coffee?” This is it; this is when it will be punished. Except, Master has taken his bite first so he must have realized his mistake, which means… Maybe that’s a way that pets are different from sluts? Maybe pets are allowed to taste coffee?

It doesn’t know what it will do if Master keeps spoiling it like this. 

“It’s mocha and I want you to eat it all and then we can nap until it’s time to get up.”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“It does. Now eat.”

_‘Please, for the love of God, just eat.’_

The pet is torn, Master is waiting for it to finish before sending it to the foot of the bed, but it wants to savor the food for as long as possible. It halfway wishes Master would kick it off of bed and let it eat the bar off the floor, then maybe it could take its time. 

But no, give a chance between having the food taken away and spending more time pressed against its Master, it doesn’t even suggest that it be put in its place. 

Clint nibbles at the bar, sometimes not even biting it, just giving it little kitten licks and Phil finally says, smiling, “You can bite it; I promise it won’t bite back.”

Clint ducks his head shyly and then takes another delicate bite.

Phil frowns, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, are you not hungry? You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” he certainly doesn’t want to force Clint to eat if he’s not actually hungry. 

The pet whimpers and stops itself from taking another bite. In its selfishness now it's risked having the food taken away, “Please let your pet keep eating, Master?” It’s mouth waters with the bar so close to its lips and it has to swallow or risk taking another bite. 

Phil sighs; this had gone much better with the chocolate last night. 

_‘Hmm. That’s a thought,’_ Clint had only ever let Phil hand feed him as part of aftercare, and only then as an indulgence for Phil, but then this feels a little like that. He pulls the bar away to break off a bite sized piece.

The pet closes its eyes as it loses the food, fighting back tears. Stupid, stupid slut. It should have eaten it all when it had the chance.

But then it feels something press against its lips and it’s eyes fly open as Master says, “Eat.”

Master gives the pet just enough time to chew each bite and swallow before feeding it the next one until the bar is gone.

“Do you want another one, Pet?”

“If it pleases you, Master,” it knows better than to get too greedy.

“If you’re sure?”

It looks past Master to the bag on the floor with longing but makes itself say, “Your pet only wishes to please you, Master.”

“Alright. If you change your mind, you know where they are,” not that Phil has any confidence that Clint will grab one himself but he has to at least make the offer, “Let’s get to sleep and then we can try doing the morning right. What do you say?”

“Like a do over, Master? Your pet promises to be good this time.”

“I know you’ll be good, Pet,” Phil says, already drifting off, “Now sleep.”

The pet feels a swell of relief and it stifles a yawn, “Yes, Master,” the pet starts to slip off the bed to go to its place on the floor but Master grabs its wrist.

Phil shifts the covers so that Clint can curl up next to him, “Come here, Pet.”

Clint smiles sleepily and snuggles up close, “Thank you, Master.”

It’s grateful that Master has forgiven it for its fuck up and the pet is lucky that it’s getting a second chance to give Master his morning blowjob. 

It will have to be sure to do better when it wakes Master this time; which means no hands and no choking. 

No matter what. 


	2. Chapter 2

The pet dozes next to Master, careful not to fall all the way asleep; this way it can check Master’s watch and be sure to be in place before his alarm wakes him. 

It needs to make sure he does it right this time and doesn’t choke; a Master’s threat is never idle and not being allowed to touch him if it fucks up again means the pet will be trying even harder to earn the privilege of begging for Master’s cum. 

“What the fuck!” At least this time Phil wakes up before Clint can get his dick out. He grabs Clint’s wrist just as his fingers slip under Phil’s waistband and he pulls Clint’s hand away, “Clint!”

Clint cries out at the sound of his name, cringing and trying to scramble back, and it should be ridiculous, Clint still towers over him and in his own way is more dangerous than Phil, but all Phil has to do is slightly tighten his grip to keeping him from going too far.

“What,” Phil trues, unsuccessfully, to speak calmly, “Do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s… it’s almost time to wake up, Master,” Clint says, as if that explains it. 

“And?”

Why is it always doing something to make Master angry? Master is obviously furious with it and it hadn’t meant to not be in place around his cock when he woke. 

“Your pet was doing it’s duty as your morning cockwarmer, Master?” 

Later, Phil will savor that questioning tone, the hint of push back lurking in the shadows, but for now he’s having a hard enough time just sticking to his guns; if he thinks about how… Clint-like Clint’s being— well. His self control only goes so far.

“After I specifically said not to?”

“It wasn’t going to use its hands, it promises.”

“You aren’t supposed to touch my dick at all!”

Clint’s lip trembles and his head turns away, “Your stupid sl— pet— your stupid pet thought it was only forbidden from touching your cock with its hands, Master, and that you were giving it a second chance at its morning service. It didn’t realize it was still being punished; it thought it was allowed to use its mouth.”

“What pun— Pet, not being allowed to touch my dick isn’t a punishment,” Phil says, anger giving way to frustration, “It is however, a rule. One of the very few I’ve made, which you’ve now broken. There has to be consequences for that, Pet.”

“Oh Master, please, your pet promises it will be good this time and not choke; please don’t take away the privilege of worshiping your cock?”

Master sighs and brings the pet’s wrist up to his lips, kissing the inside of the black band and it tries not to jolt at the feeling of Master’s lips on its skin. Part of it had though it had dreamed of the way Master had kissed it last night, as if it really were the treasured pet that Master has been pretending it is. 

“Sweetheart, this is another one of those things I don’t think you’ll understand right now but my dick isn’t a privilege for you to earn.”

Clint makes a small sound of dismay but at least he doesn’t break out his ‘but Master’ or ‘if it pleases you’; though Phil is sure they’re coming.

The pet had been lying to itself, thinking it could ever deserve to worship Master’s cock, and now Master is angry with it for having been so presumptuous. His tone is gentle but there’s an undercurrent of rage in the way he holds his body. It’s obvious that the only way the pet will get Master’s cock is when he feels like raping one of it’s holes, which is all it deserves; at least then it will be able to serve him with its pain. 

Master crushes even that slim hope, “Once we get home we’ll talk to a professional and figure out what’s going to be best for you; I don’t want to hurt you in the meantime.”

“But Master,” Clint says and Phil tries not to laugh, though he supposes that’d be better than crying, “That’s what your pet is for.”

If the pet isn't worthy of worshiping Master’s cock or receiving his pain, what use does it have? 

It’s concerned about the professional Master wants to consult. It’s former master preferred to personally train it to please him but would occasionally have an expert come in to show him a new way of hurting the slut; maybe that is why Master is waiting, maybe Master wants to be sure any torments inflicted on it are new?

“No. I'm not using you and I’m definitely not hurting you. The only thing you need to do is to let me take care of you. We’ll make that rule number four.”

“But Master, that’s five rules?” 

“Five? What do you think the rules are, Pet?” Phil asks, rubbing Clint’s wrist soothingly. 

“Your pet is not allowed to call itself a worthless slut,” the pet doesn’t understand that rule, it _is_ a worthless slut; it knows it still doesn’t deserve to be Master’s pet, though it is trying. 

It would be easier without all of Master’s rules.

“Your pet is not allowed to die, your pet is not allowed to choke on your cock,” Master’s grip tightens briefly on that one, so it knows it’s important, “Your pet is not allowed to touch your cock with its mouth or hands, and your pet is to let you take care of it, Master.”

“Close enough for now. We’ll work on it,” Phil kisses the inside of Clint’s wrist again and then soothes the spot with his thumb when he feels Clint tremble, “There’s still the matter of your punishment. I hate having to do this pet, you should know that punishing you hurts me as much as it hurts you.”

The pet doesn’t understand. How could hurting the pet be as painful for Master? It would be one thing if refusing to let the pet service his cock was it’s punishment, but Master has made it clear that it isn’t, that worshiping his cock is a privilege it can't earn to begin with.

It worries about what sort of punishment will also hurt Master. Will he break its fingers, and maybe it’s jaw? That will still leave its asshole for Master’s use and it’s the most common punishment for touching its Master without permission.

The pet hopes it’s only broken fingers; it’s the next step up from Master refusing to allow it to touch him and Master didn’t seem so angry as to want to remove them. 

It could be so much worse for having acted against Master’s expressed wishes, as confusing as they may be. It knows being stupid is no excuse for misbehavior; in fact, it usually warrants additional Punishments. 

Phil can see now he wasn’t clear enough with Clint before, that he wasn’t mad at Clint for choking but for trying to have sex with Phil while he was asleep; and when Phil suggested they try to have a ‘normal’ morning Clint must have come to the conclusion that that was permission, or maybe even an order, for him to try and give Phil another blow job. All things considered Clint doesn’t deserve to be punished but there still needs to be a consequence for his actions, as well as a way to reinforce that he isn’t to touch Phil like that without his permission.

“I much prefer a system of rewards, so I’m going to split the difference: no coffee with breakfast but if you behave yourself the rest of the day you can have some on the plane.”

“Master!” 

Clint’s eyes are as big as dinner plates and for a second Phil is concerned; after what Clint’s been through he doesn’t think this is too severe of a punishment, though it’s one that would have been devastating for Barton before all of this.

The pet is filled with conflicting emotions; shock that Master would allow it coffee in the first place; dismay that it had lost the chance to sip from Master’s cup at breakfast; joy at being given the opportunity to earn the chance to do so in the future; relief that, after touching him when it wasn’t supposed to, Master won’t be breaking its fingers; guilt that it is getting off so lightly. 

“Your pet will be good, Master. So very good. It promises,” it would get into Obeisance but Master has it pressed up along his side and his wrist is still captured in Master’s grasp.

Just then, Master’s alarm beeps.

“Alright, sweetheart; time to get ready. I’m going to hop in the shower, you can use the other bathroom.”

“Please, Master, may your pet wash you?”

For just a second Phil indulges himself in remembering their last shower together; the way Clint had felt warm and slick under his hands, against his mouth, around his— but then reality charges in, “No, Pet.”

The pet ducks it’s head and tries not to be disappointed at not being allowed to worship Master in even this small way. 

As much as Phil would like an excuse to touch Clint while he is wet and naked he knows his limits and he would be lying to himself if he tried to spin sharing a shower as in Clint’s best interest. 

“I want you to take a sponge bath in the other bathroom while I shower and when you’re done washing I want to take another look at that bite on your thigh.”

“Yes, Master.”

With Herculean effort, Phil lets go of Clint, “Let’s get to it, the sooner we’re ready, the sooner we can get breakfast.”

Master gives it a decadently soft towel and washcloth along with the toothbrush it had used last night and even lets it use his toothpaste again. After brushing its teeth the pet reluctantly takes off Master’s shirt and sweatpants and gives itself a quick and efficient sponge bath. 

It hurts a little when the pet stretches to get to the hard to reach spots but it’s a good hurt, as is the near full body ache from the cane; it’s hard to believe its game of Arrows was only last night. It’s time with its former Master seems like a lifetime ago. 

It wonders if it’s new Master will let it play Arrows; though it almost isn’t worth earning them. 

But only almost. 

Once it’s done washing up, the cold water raising goosebumps over its skin, it takes a little time to study itself in the small mirror over the sink; the pet normally avoids mirrors, outside of when playing Mirrors of course, where it’s former Master would make it watch itself as he tormented his slut until it lost by looking away. 

It looks almost as different as it feels. It touches its face and then touches its reflection, trying to determine the difference. Wondering what’s real and what’s not. 

Is that really it’s reflection or is the pet just what it’s been programmed to be?

It knows the Framework can manipulate its body in countless ways. Was it always blond? Were its eyes always this blue and its lips so full? It has high cheekbones with a smattering of pale freckles and its eyebrows are just to the other side of delicate under its disarray of almost-curls. It has a small scar on its lip, just to the side of the split. It looks old, it can’t remember when the scar had been given to it. 

Had it’s former Master created this image whole cloth? And if so, is it sufficient enough to please its new Master? It thinks maybe it looks like a sculpture or a statue, and the scar is a tiny imperfection to give it that spark of life. 

Or maybe the small scar is a relic from Before, some bit of code not worth deleting; from when it was such a bad slut that needed to be Punished all the time? 

_“Barney! Barney! Look how high I am!”_

_Clint laughs with glee, swingin’ upside down by his knees from the old apple tree in the backyard, the one that’s creepin’ its way over the fence to Mom’s vegetable garden; a straggler from the abandoned orchard where most th’other trees are dead or near there, gone with rot._

_Barney says there’s a ghost back in the trees and Clint believes him. It’s spooky enough and his big brother would never lie to him and ‘sides that Clint can hear it sometimes, ‘specially now that his ears are mostly better from the time Dad hit him so hard he went deaf for a bit._

_You’d’a thought the farm would be hogs, what with dad being a butcher and all, but forever and ever and ever ago great granddad Barton planted apples and so now instead of hogs they got dead trees and Dad hasn’t got enough meat to sell._

_“Clint Barton, you dummy, get down ‘afore Dad sees you. If you don’t break yer neck he’ll do it for ya. We gotta get the weeds done or we’re both in for it!”_

_“Come’on Barns, s’just for a minute. He ain’t gonna be home til dinner.”_

_“Nuh-uh, mom says he’s closin’ up early so we gotta get it done now; we ain’t got time for foolin’ ’round, little bro.”_

_“Okay, okay, I’m comin’.”_

_“What in the damned hell are you subs doin’!”_

_“We was just takin’ a break, Dad,” Barney says, even though Barney wasn’t. Barney’s the good sub, not like Clint who was born worthless (just ask the old man)._

_Dad had snuck up on them out of nowhere and now he knocks Barney to the ground, “Lazy, no good subs! Lookatcha wastin’ time when there's work t’be done._ Get down from there, ya worthless brat.”

_See. Worthless._

_Dad’s Order starts to take him Down but he lets his mind go loose like Barney taught him, to let it take just a little and then let it flow through him like a stream. Don’t be a leaf, you’ll get swept away; don’t be a stone, you’ll sink; be a fish and you can swim through subspace, breath it in and it’s no harder to resist than the wind._

_Unfortunately it means he doesn’t get down out of the tree fast enough for Dad; he hadn’t noticed that Dad was holdin’ a whiskey bottle and not a beer; that’ll learn him for not payin’ ‘tention. If he’d’ve noticed the bottle he woulda dropped outta the tree right away._

_Hell, if he weren’t such a worthless sub, he’d’ve seen Dad comin’ and they wouldn’t’ve been caught slackin’ off in the first place, and now he’s got Barns in trouble too._

_Dad grabs Clint’s arm, near ta breakin’ it, and pulls him down; Clint’s jeans rip on one leg and that’ll earn him twice the beatin’; even worse, mom’ll have to stitch’em_ _up again and she don’t have time for that. Maybe if he gets away from this without anything broken he can try seeing them up himself. His stitches are always loose and uneven, but it’s not like he deserves anything better._

_Dad tosses Clint to the ground and backhands him so hard his ears ring and he prays to God livin’ up in his big fancy church with Jesus and all the nuns and fathers and angels that it will go away and that ringin’ ain’t the only thing he’ll hear forever._

_Later, Barney sneaks out some frozen peas for Clint’s busted lip and black eye and tells him, “We can go play in the trees t’morrow.”_

_“But what about the ghost?”_

_“We’ll be fine; we live with somethin’ scarier than any ol’ ghost.”_

_Clint cradles his sore arm to his bruised ribs and nods, knowing Barney’s right._

The pet shakes off the memory. They’re getting longer, and have started to feel more real. 

Up until the last week or so it had thought the memories were just glitches in the Framework, random bits of old programming coming out to haunt it. Now it’s starting to wonder if there’s something more to it; if maybe they’re not from Before. They seem to come more frequently the more it lets itself dwell on them and it’s sure that as soon as Master sees the logs he’ll finally Punish the worthless— the pet for real. Even worse, in all the memories it’s thought of itself as a Forbidden word. 

Maybe Master’s telling the truth and the word was once its name. 

Maybe he wasn’t made but was born, maybe it really was something else before it was a slut.

No, that is dangerous thinking. 

And it’s not a slut. Not anymore. 

(It will always be a worthless slut.) 

No! 

It’s Master’s pet. His good boy. Master even said so. It sees a blush tint its face as it thinks of all the ways Master has pampered it. 

And if the pet is good enough it will even get to taste Master’s coffee. It doesn’t deserve such a generous Master. 

It goes back to studying its reflection. It’s face’s structure hasn’t changed in months, so it doesn’t think that’s the difference the pet sees, it must be something else. 

Maybe it’s the bandage over it’s nose and the ones on its forehead; it’s former Master rarely bothered patching it up after it had gotten broken. 

No, that’s not it. 

It thinks it’s something with its eyes, and maybe it’s mouth, though the split lip is familiar enough. So are the bruises. 

— Happy. 

It looks happy. 

It feels a wellspring of fear and its face becomes familiar again. Being happy has never led to anything good. 

The pet has wasted far too much time in the bathroom— _we ain’t got time for foolin’ ’round, little bro—_ and it can hear that Master’s turned off the water in his shower. 

The pet folds the towel to kneel on, telling itself it’s to protect the carpet next to the bed and not because it feels good, and hopes it believes it enough that Master will believe it too when he checks the logs. It sets Master’s used clothing folded on the floor next to it and gets into Supplication, though it wonders if Offering, or maybe Obeisance, wouldn't be more appropriate. 

It bites it’s lip but stops itself at the slight pleasure/pain, not wanting to pull too hard at the split. Pain, and any pleasure that comes with it, is Master’s to give not the pet’s to take. 

Perhaps, if it is very, _very_ good, Master will hurt soon; even without the pleasure it is sometimes allowed to feel with the pain, it will be an honor to be able to serve its purpose. 

It feels it’s slut cock fill as it images the ways that Master could hurt it that it loves best and dares to bite its lip one more time, gently so as to not bleed without permission, knowing it’s already overstepping its bounds but unable to stop itself from being a bad sl- a bad pet. 

It hopes it will be forgiven and tries to tell itself that it’s merely keeping itself ready for Master but it knows it’s courting punishment.

It’s wrists twitch from their place on its thighs in an aborted attempt to touch its nipples. Oh, it wants to be bad; it wants to touch itself, to let itself feel pleasure as it thinks about Master’s pain; the thought of being punished— with the added fear of not being reset— curling around its spine isn’t enough of a deterrent. 

The pet spreads it’s knees just a little more, displaying it’s hard cock for Master, keeping its chin lifted to better expose its sinfully bare neck and the bruises there. 

It worries that master might think it’s showing off the marks from its former Master and his guards, the bites on its arms, chest and thigh, the scratches down the center of its chest and the boot shaped bruise off to one side. 

But no, if Master didn’t like the marks he would reset it, which means he must like his pet this way. 

It wonders if Master will make it scream or if he will gag it; or maybe he’ll just Order it silent. 

Master comes into the room and gasps. 

The pet doesn’t know if that means it’s done something wrong or something right, but it will find out soon enough. 


	3. Chapter 3

Phil takes a short shower, not wanting to leave Clint alone too long. 

Okay, if he’s being honest, it’s not for Clint’s benefit. Phil can’t stand being separated from Clint any longer than he has to, even with his heart breaking all over again every time some new horror is revealed. 

Part of him is afraid that he’s going to close his eyes and when he opens them this will have all been some elaborate nightmare. 

A nightmare better than any reality where he doesn’t have Clint.

When he’s done he dries off and wraps a towel around his waist before wiping the little bit of condensation that’s gathered from the mirror and checks his reflection. 

There’s a spark in his eyes that hasn’t been there for months and the bags under his eyes don’t look as dark. The tightness that has taken up residence in the corners of his mouth and eyes has eased. He combs out his short beard debates on trimming or shaping it, but he doesn’t want to take the time. Maybe tomorrow. 

He smiles at his reflection, a slow, sweet, timid thing. Like a rabbit peeking out of its burrow, wary of predators. 

He has a ways to go before he’ll be anywhere near normal but it’s a start. 

Phil comes into the bedroom to find Clint kneeling by the bed and his breath catches. If it weren’t for the marks, ‘ _rivals' marks_ ’ his mind growls, Clint would be a wet dream come true. Even though he knows it’s a mistake he walks over and tilts Clint’s head up with a finger under his chin in order to brush a soft kiss across Clint’s lips. Phil just barely keeps himself in check, not allowing himself the possessive, nearly punishing kiss his inner monster craves and his lips tremble with the effort. 

The pet gasps, and it wants to protest— no, it wants to want to protest, instead it tilts its head just so, brushing its lower lip against Master’s in what could be an accident. Master kisses it again, another gentle press of his lips, and then Master tilts his head slightly for a better angle, this time his lips catching at the pet’s lower lip, and then there’s another sweet, chaste kiss and it wishes this could go on forever. 

“Get up on the bed for me, Pet,” Masters voice is slow and smooth like syrup in summer as he lets go of the pet’s chin and steps away, “I want to take a look at you before you get dressed.”

“Yes, Master.”

Okay, mistake isn’t exactly the word Phil would use; at least not for the first kiss. Not the last, either. And the ones in between were too sweet to assign them any blame. It was as difficult to stop as it had been easy to start and he wonders what’s happened to all his vaunted self control. 

The pet takes the opportunity to watch Master as he dresses; it’s the first time it’s gotten to see him naked and he’s beautiful; his torso and arms are all compact muscle under mostly smooth skin. There’s a couple of bullet scars on one shoulder but there are no matching scars on his chest, so the bullets must not have gone all the way through. The pet is glad Master has so few serious injuries. 

Master has a dark thatch of chest hair that leads to a treasure trail shaped almost like an arrow pointing straight down to his cock which hangs heavy between his legs in its dark cropping of hair. Master looks about average in size but it remembers the satisfying way he fills the pet’s mouth and it knows how much larger it is once he’s completely hard. It hopes Master will cum on it for breakfast, even if it’s still not allowed to touch. 

Master has thickly muscled thighs and shapely calves furred with dark hair. His feet are well kept and look nice; the pet wants to bow down before him and kiss them, to show how grateful it is to be Master’s pet. 

While Clint gets situated, Phil gets dressed, diverting his mind from how easy it would be to take Clint here and now; Clint’s always been irresistible but now it takes every fiber of Phil’s being not to abuse his power. 

Phil selects black slacks and a white button down; he sets aside the black two button suit jacket and a charcoal tie, and then sees his lucky tie and smiles.

_It’s almost six and Phil knows Barton will be here any minute, which means it’s time to get ready. Not that he has much to do, he’s just changing his tie, but it'll be a surprise for Barton, and Phil’s looking forward to his expression._

_“Hey bossman, you ready to— woah.”_

_“Do you like it?”_

_Barton saunters up to him and pulls the royal purple silk tie through his fingers, “Is this for me?”_

_Phil nods, “I picked it out after London.”_

_After Angelo’s. After seeing Barton in a sleek button down in this exact shade of purple that looked like it was made to fit his body._

_“I love it,” Barton says, crowding up to Phil._

_“I thought it would be nice for our first date.”_

_“Third.”_

_“Third?”_

_“Third,” Barton bends until his lips brush Phil’s, ever since their first kiss this morning it’s like a damn has been broken and Clint’s been stealing kisses all day, “Odessa,” he kisses Phil again, this time flicking his tongue across Phil’s lip, “Then London,” he bites Phil’s lip and pulls it through his teeth. Phil moans as Barton says, “DC makes three.”_

_“Odessa,” Phil kisses Barton back, capturing his lower lip and licking it, “And London,” a deeper kiss this time, his tongue sliding into Barton’s mouth and back out in a tease, “Were work,” the third kiss is longer, more passionate, a tryst of lips and tongues as Phil masters Barton’s mouth. When he finally breaks the kiss Barton is panting and Phil isn’t breathing quite evenly either, “DC makes one.”_

_“Three,” Barton kisses him again, giving as good as he gets, pulling Phil closer by his tie, his other hand on the small of Phil’s back. Phil grabs Barton’s hips and slots their legs together then mimics the slow, rolling thrusts of his tongue with his hips. Barton moans into Phil’s mouth, “Unf, let's skip dinner and go straight to the spanking.”_

_“Dinner first, then dessert.”_

_They continue to kiss, their hands roving over each other’s bodies._

_“I think I left a fortune cookie by the couch; we could have that for dinner.”_

_Phil palms Barton’s ass and twists their bodies so their dicks are rubbing against each other just right, “I made reservations.”_

_Barton sucks on Phil’s bottom lip, “Reservations are overrated. Come’on, we can split it; I’ll even let you have the fortune.”_

_Phil laughs, “As tempting,” he punctuates with a thrust, “As that is,” he coaxes Barton’s tongue into his mouth and then sucks until Clint whimpers, “I’m not having our first date be splitting a fortune cookie.”_

_He steps away and straightens his tie. Barton looks both stunning and stunned like this, eyes dark and lips plump and shining._

_“Let’s get going. The sooner we get dinner the sooner we can move on to dessert,” he slaps Barton’s ass, hard, as he steps past him and out the office door._

_Barton slides up next to him as they walk down the hall, he takes Phil’s hand and Phil squeezes it. It will be fodder for the Trisk rumor mill in the morning but neither of them care._

_“Third.”_

Phil smiles at the memory, taking the first date/third date tie and the clothes Clint slept in and setting them on the nightstand. 

Clint’s lying back, waiting patiently. His arms are at his sides and his knees just barely parted, while his dick still stands at attention, the tip glossy with precum. Phil leans over, wanting to taste Clint more than he wants to breathe, but he stops himself halfway, eyes arrested by the vicious bite mark on the inside of Clint’s thigh. 

It’s a visceral reminder of all the reasons Phil can’t touch Clint the way he wants to and he concentrates on examining the mark with as much detachment as he can manage. It looks better than it did last night and he makes a pleased sound at how nicely it’s healing before reapplying some neosporin and rebandaging it. 

It’s cock is still sore from where the guard scratched it, and it wants more than anything for master to slap it, or twist it, to replace her pain with his own, but instead Master simply ignores it, which is perhaps the worst thing of all.

The rest of Clint’s marks are doing better as well, though the bruises have bloomed into a riot of colors. Phil redoes the bandages on Clint’s nose and brow, noting that he probably won’t need them tomorrow. 

The pet manages to not squirm, to not push up into Master’s gentle fingers; wishing he would press into the marks covering its body, overlaying them with his own bruises. 

With Master’s, “Okay, over,” it twists around and there’s some measure of relief as it presses its cock down into the soft warm sheets. It jerks away as it realizes it’s getting its slut juice on the bed, but then Master presses down on the unmarked small of its back and it settles in place, sneaking in one small thrust and holding in a moan. 

Clint’s upper back is a solid bruise, as is his ass from the swell of his cheeks to the crease where his ass meets his thighs. Phil rubs more healing creaming into Clint’s skin. He’d like to take his time but they’re on a clock and so he rubs it in as efficiently as he can.

It’s still enough to have Clint practically purring as he pushes up into Phil’s hands and then back down into the bed and it takes all of Phil’s willpower not to reach under Clint to his dick and stroke him into an orgasam. 

Clint lets out a pleased yelp when Phil gently slaps his marked ass, “Up and dressed. What you wore last night will have to do for now. We’ll get breakfast and by the time we’re done the shops should be open. Then a quick stop to get your passport and we’ll head back here to get our things before heading to the airport.”

Master rubs soothing circles onto its tender ass, mellowing out the pleasant sting from his slap and causing a different type of ache, “How are you feeling? How’s the pain?”

“Sooooo goooood, Master,” Master’s careful ministrations and massage, followed by the frankly delightful slap to its sore ass have left it floating in that level of subspace where it’s still aware of its surroundings but everything feels just that much better.

“Okay,” Master says, helping it sit up and pull on Master’s shirt, “I still want you to take a couple pain pills before you come Up.”

It doesn’t mean to, but it pouts a little; it really doesn’t want any more pain while it’s in that oh so good place and, even more, it doesn’t want to go back Up. 

“What’s wrong, Pet?” Master says, having the Pet stand as he helps it put on his sweatpants.

Of course Master could tell and the little flare of guilt flickers into a blaze; made all the stronger for Master asking in that calm, even tone he has for the pet to explain itself instead of just backhanding it like it deserves. 

“Your pet was bad, Master,” it says, averting its eyes from Master’s chest. It doesn’t deserve to look at Master. It feels itself swim up from the frayed edge of subspace it had been dancing along, its erection wilting as it knows it has to own up to its deception. More than that, it knows it will have disappointed him. It takes a deep breath so it can stay Down, Master specifically said he wanted it to be in more pain before coming Up.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Phil brushes Clint’s hair back off his forehead, concerned not because he thinks Clint has done anything wrong, but because he’s worried about what Clint thinks he has done wrong this time. He braces himself so that he won’t let any anger over what Quinn’s done show and upset Clint further.

“It should have told you last night that the pain pills didn’t work.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Master cups the left side of the pet’s face and gently kisses it’s bruised jaw and even though it keeps happening it’s shocked every time Master so casually lets his mouth touch the dirty s— pet, “I wish I had known, I would have given you something stronger.”

The pet feels a tear escape; more dismayed at having disappointed Master than fear at cheating him the pet’s pain, “Your pet is sorry, Master. May it beg to be punished?”

“No, baby; I think it’s enough that you know that you should have asked for more when you needed it and that you’ll be sure to take them going forward. Can you promise me that you will?”

“Oh, yes, Master! It will take them and keep taking them for as long as it pleases you, Master,” maybe the extra pain won’t be too bad; if nothing else it doesn’t seem like Master wants it in so much pain it’s incapacitated. 

“I’ll give you a stronger dose and have you carry the bottle today, that way if you feel them start to wear off you can take more. I’m trusting you to manage your pain levels. If you know you need them and don’t take them, I’ll be very upset, and you won’t get any coffee for a week.”

It figures one of Clint’s traits that still bleeds through is his resistance to taking pain killers; usually he would bribe Clint into it but sometimes guilt works even better and Phil wants to be sure Clint will follow through; not to mention a week without coffee would be enough to keep Barton in line more than any guilt possibly could. Phil just hopes the threat still works. 

“Yes, Master,” the pet says, knowing it deserves the added pain. It will be more than worth it if it means it will be allowed to not only taste Master’s coffee but to continue to earn the privilege. Though it doesn’t kid itself, Master’s gifts and punishments can be given or revoked at Master’s whim; “Your pet will be good, it promises.”

“Good boy,” Master says and it feels it’s body light up with pleasure it doesn’t deserve.

“Oh! Thank you, Master!”

Phil kisses his jaw one more time and then says, “Can you come all the way Up for me now, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t seem to be too far down, at least, not for the Barton Phil knew. He’s starting to separate them in his mind, Barton and Clint; he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. 

In the past, it had always been difficult for Barton to go Down and even harder for him to stay there; he was never in subspace long without specific prompting or stimulus. Whatever Quinn did to him with the Framework seems to have changed that; it seems like Clint’s always Down, at least a little bit, and it’s concerning. 

It’s not healthy for submissives to constantly be in subspace, in addition to their reflexes, awareness, and cognitive abilities being impaired while they’re Down, long term it can make them hypervigilant and prone to sensory overload when they’re Up. 

“But Master, it is Up?”

“Hmm. Let me see your eyes, Pet,” Phil has been respecting Clint’s aversion to eye contact but he needs to check for signs of subspace addiction; if Clint thinks this is Up, he has to wonder how much of the last couple months he’s been kept Down.

The pet cries in dismay and it knows it should be used to the way Master yanks it’s emotions around like a yo-yo but going from the height of being his ‘good boy’ to the terror of making its undeserving eyes meet its Master’s gaze has it feeling dizzy, “Oh please, Master, please, it isn’t worthy!”

“I thought I got to decide that?” Phil says, masking his rage with humor, _‘Fucking Quinn’_.

“…Yes, Master,” Clint says miserably as he braces himself.

“It will be okay, I promise, just for a second. And you’re allowed to look at me sweetheart, you’re always allowed; in fact, it would make me very happy if you would.”

The pet’s jaw drops and those the fear still threatens to take it Down, it gets distracted from following Master’s order like it should, “But Master, insolent sluts who look at their betters get their eyes taken away.”

“Christ,” Phil’s overwhelmed with horror, pulling Clint into his arms, cradling the back of his head and pulling him so that they’re pressed cheek to cheek, his other arm wrapped around Clint’s waist. He doesn’t know what to say, what he _could_ say, to that.

Master holds it tight and slowly pets the small of its back, stroking the gap of skin between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his sweatpants and it starts sliding from dread to relief, though it’s heart is still pounding.

“Okay, sweetheart, I won’t press,” not right now, at least. 

If he can get a better idea of how far Down Clint is he’ll know the best way to bring him Up. He reluctantly lets go of his sub, cupping his face and kissing one cheek and then the other, looking at Clint’s eyes obliquely. 

The pet will never get used to how casually Master puts his mouth on it, the way he kisses it as if it is precious, so much like its deepest fantasies that Master must be pulling it straight from its thoughts and dreams. 

Which makes the special treatment even more astonishing; it knows it’s been a bad pet, letting itself have disobedient thoughts, not telling Master that it thinks it’s starting to remember Before; it deserves Punishment, not to be spoiled like this. 

In order to bring Clint out of subspace Phil starts small, trying to get Clint to make little choices; he takes him into the living room and nudges him towards the half dozen or so kneeling cushions stacked neatly in the corner. 

“Pick one and bring it over to the couch,” he says, moving to sit and indicating the floor at his feet. 

The pet hesitates, it’s breath catching; it doesn’t know Master well enough yet to know which he will prefer; which means it only has a 20% chance of choosing correctly. Master’s body language gives nothing away, and it tries to make something of the arrangement, to see if one is sticking out more than the others, or looks the least comfortable, though they’re all gorgeous and full and far above anything the pet deserves to touch with its worthless body. Maybe one of them will be tougher against its skin, though most of it is covered by Masters clothing, another luxury hasn’t earned.

Maybe that’s why Master likes to keep the pet so dressed, to keep its slut skin from touching any of his other things?

Master startles the pet, gently saying, “Green or Gold.”

The pet sighs in relief, now the odds are only 50/50; it concentrates on Master’s tone, trying to parse whether one seemed more preferable than the other. Finally it decides to go with the first one and takes the green cushion over to Master. It kneels in Offering, ass back on its heels, knees wide, head up and eyes down, with its hands out palm up, holding the cushion up for Master’s inspection. It’s soft and full and better than anything the pet deserves and it waits for Master to backhand it for choosing incorrectly; surely the gold was the right choice, it couldn’t possibly be as comfortable as the green. It asks hesitantly, “Does this one please you, Master?”

Clint’s a shivering mess and Phil swears at himself; he should have realized trying to get Clint to choose anything would be hard on him. He’ll have to try a different tract. 

“Perfect, sweetheart. Set it down here and kneel for me.”

The pet feels a warm glow at having picked right, “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Phil runs his hand through Clint’s hair and waits until Clint’s relaxed enough to ask Clint to describe the room in as much detail as he can, touching on all his senses. Clint glances up towards Phil’s chest but stops short before looking at Phil’s face, a half formed attempt of Clint’s ‘are you crazy?’ expression that Phil is thrilled to see. Clint may not understand why Phil’s asked it but he does an admirable job complying. Unfortunately, he never even comes close to breaking free from his just barely Down state. 

Once it’s exhausted all the ways it can detail out the room the pet realizes that Master is probably doing some sort of diagnostic test on it. 

It stands to reason, the next thing Master has it do a full maintenance check of the bow; letting it kneel on the top comfortable cushion next to the coffee table as it goes over the bow first with its hands and then with a series of cotton balls to check for nicks and cracks, making sure the limbs aren’t at risk of splintering. Then it checks all the screws are tight and there’s no dust or grit build up. It doesn’t have any wax for the string and it’s limited in cleaning materials, but it still feels itself go into that same trance-like state that it reaches while shooting. 

It hopes Master will let it kill quickly and cleanly, that whatever tasks he is preparing his weapons for he will allow them to be merciful. It’s a foolish dream but one it can’t help. Once it’s done it kneels up into Offering, the bow balanced across its palms.

“Very good, sweetheart,” Phil says, running his hand through Clint’s hair and then taking the bow and setting it aside. 

He had been surprised that Quinn had kept Flight Risk; the bow is a highly specialized piece of equipment straight out of SHIELD’s R & D and he would have expected Quinn to have sent it to a lab to break it down and reverse engineer it. It’s almost as surprising as having let Clint stay in fighting shape, even as diminished as it is.

Then again, maybe not so surprising that he wanted to keep such danger close; Phil knows all too well how intoxicating it feels like to have so much power bend to your will. 

That feeling tastes like ash in his mouth now. 

Unfortunately, Phil’s attempts to guide Clint out of subspace aren’t working and they don’t have all day to experiment. 

Phil takes Clint’s hands and kisses the palm of each. He hates doing this, but he’s out of options, “Okay, sweetheart, I’m going to try to be gentle; I need you to c _ome all the way Up for me, Pet,_ ” he Whispers; it would take less force and be more effective with eye contact, or if he was able to use Clint’s full name, but this will have to do. 

With Master’s Words the world comes sharply into focus, like surfacing out of a still lake; colors become more saturated and it can count each thread of Master’s shirt; the clothing Master have it is no longer a blessing but a curse, no longer soft and comfortable but more like sandpaper; it feels the swirl of his fingerprints against its skin and smell the lingering echo of the shampoo Master used; the minty sweetness of the toothpaste is almost overwhelming and the muffled jumble of noises from outside sharpen into the sound of traffic from a couple streets over and someone loudly cursing at a cat in Italian beneath the window.

It reminds him of how bright and clear things had been this morning, only moreso. It’s senses have never been this sharp and all at once it’s aches and pains become overwhelming and it cries out, “Oh Master, it hurts!” 

The firestorm of sensations batter it and it wishes only for it to stop but it has enough twisted sense of self preservation to whimper, “Thank you for the pain,

Master.” 

“Clint!” Phil ignores that dark part of him that preens at Clint’s words; not like this. Never like this.

The sound of the Forbidden word rips through it like a saw blade— no a saw blade would be easier to bear. No wonder master had wanted it to take the pills first, magnified this pain would be beyond agony; even as it tries to curl inward it has the sense of mind to remind Master, “The pills, Master?”

“Shit. I’m sorry sweetheart; here, sit. Sit. I’ll get them. We’ll give it a couple seconds, I know it can be hard to adjust when you don’t come Up naturally,” not to mention the added risk of Drop. Phil feels a wave of guilt for putting his sweet submissive through this. He helps Clint to the bed and then pulls out the pain killers, shaking out three and then handing them to Clint along with his bottle of water, “Take these now; they won’t kick in for twenty minutes or so. If you don’t feel them by then, let me know.”

If the ibuprofen doesn’t make a dent Phil will either give him one of the emergency morphine tablets he has in his field kit, or will Help Clint back Down depending on which looks like it will do more good, or rather least harm. 

Oh God, everything is just too much too much. It takes the pills blindly, shutting its eyes as it swallows them. After a couple breaths the pressure of the room’s air against its skin seems to ease and everything settles down from being hyper real to just too real to believe and it blinks its eyes open. 

Master must have done something to the Framework’s settings and the pet is once again in awe of how devious he is. 

“Oh! I almost forgot, I have something for you.”

Phil takes the tie from the nightstand, “We can look at getting you an actual collar while we’re out, if we can find one you like, but I thought this might work for now?”

“Oh, Master, it’s beautiful,” it chokes out, overwhelmed by not only the vibrant beauty of the purple silk but the thought that Master is willing to collar it after all, and not just collar it but use his own clothes to do it, “Your pet isn’t worthy.”

“Hey now, we talked about this. Who gets to decide that, Pet?” At least for now. 

“You do, Master.”

“Okay, then lift your chin.”

It should look ridiculous, the perfectly knotted tie dark against the plain white t-shirt paired with worn too small grey sweats, but Phil thinks he looks delicious and he wants to strip Clint naked of everything but the tie, to wrap his wrists in matching purple ropes and bind him to the bed so that Phil can lick and kiss every inch of his body, to pleasure Clint with his lips and tongue until Clint’s begging to come and once he breaks making him come over and over again until they both collapse with exhaustion. 

Maybe his tie was a bad idea. 

Once he knows his Voice won’t break and he won’t do anything stupid he says, “I want you to put on a couple socks; we’ll get you some shoes as soon as we can, but that should help keep you from getting too cold.” 

Phil grabs a couple pairs of socks and comes back to have Clint sit up on the couch. Phil kneels at Clint’s feet, eliciting a shocked, “Master!” He layers the socks and thinks Clint should be okay as long as he doesn’t step in anything wet. 

“Can you stand?” Phil says as he gets to his feet.

The pet nods, “Yes, Master,” it says putting words to wobbly action, permanently off balanced by its Master.

“Let’s go; I don’t know about you but I’m hungry,” and if he’s hungry for more than food, there’s no reason to let it show. 


	4. Chapter 4

They get a few strange looks from some of the other patrons as they enter the cafe and Phil starts second guessing himself. Maybe he should have left Clint at the apartment and picked something up for them; but it’s still all too new for him to be willing to leave Clint alone for any length of time. 

Clint is wearing Phil’s leather jacket again; his cashmere/merino blend suit coat is more than enough to combat the cold and Clint needs the jacket more. A leather jacket of his own is on Phil’s mental shopping list. 

Part of him takes possessive pleasure in knowing he gets to dress Clint anyway he wants to. His sub had always balked at Phil buying him things and tended to shy away from the finer fabrics Phil preferred to see him in, and Phil is going to take this opportunity to indulge himself. 

Phil regrets that they don’t have time to get Clint a tailored suit, even with the muscle mass he’s lost Clint is an imposing figure at 6’3”, his narrow waist emphasizing his broad shoulders and long legs; he would look amazing in a three piece worsted cut to measure. He resolves to take Clint to Phil’s tailor once they’re settled in DC; Ezio may be a third generation American but Phil would put his bespoke against any tailor in Italy. 

Phil chose the cafe both because it’s close to the apartment but because it serves in a more classic style, the bar has two levels and most, though not all, of the subs are kneeling or sitting on the pillowy cushions next to their doms, both at the bar and at the handful of tables. 

At this point Phil knows that there’s no way Clint will be comfortable sitting next to him at a table or leaning against the bar; he’s also insisted on eating from Phil’s hands every time he’s tried to give him something to eat and it’s been pulling teeth to get him to sit on any furniture. 

The ride to the cafe on Master’s motorcycle had been invigorating and calming. It’s still being inundated by sensory information but clinging to Master’s back with its eyes closed it felt protected by Master’s warmth; all other sounds were blocked out by the rumble of the engine and the vibrations overwhelmed its aches and pains. The scent of gasoline and motor oil filled its head and it smelled like freedom. 

The little cafe is a riot of bright colors and cool sunshine and the pet crowds up behind Master in the entryway, seeking his protection.

The bar would put their backs to the doorway, so Phil looks for a table, at the nod from the only server Phil takes the empty one towards the back corner. There’s no kitchen or hallway, which means he just has to worry about the cafe door and windows. The loss of a secondary escape route is offset by only having to watch one direction. 

He’s not expecting Quinn’s people to have found them but he needs to keep an eye out. There’s no telling yet how much information Clint may have on Quinn’s operation but even if he never says a word Quinn’s not the type to let go. If he knows Quinn at all, taking out Phil and Clint before they can escape the country will be his first priority. 

Master makes it take his jacket off before they sit down but it’s soft whine of complaint turns into a purr for the few seconds its arms are trapped behind its back and it rolls its body for Master, even as it sends sparks of pain down its back. It debates doing it again, knowing it just needs to push the pain a little more and it might be able to Slip back Down to normal. 

But no. Master wants it like this and its purpose is to suffer for Master’s pleasure. 

Master sits at the table and then tugs it down next to him by his tie. It still wishes Master had been willing to attach its leash to the tie but Master and seemed horrified at the thought of damaging the silk. None of the other sluts— Or no, pets, all the other pets seem even more pampered than it is— none of them have leashes holding them to their Masters’ and Mistresses’ sides and it sees the further wisdom of it not being on a leash, though it still seems like far too much freedom to be trusted with to the pet. Even more surprising, several of the pets have been allowed out even though they haven’t earned their collars and it leans into Master needing the reassurance of his presence. 

There’s a large pastry case, an impressive, even for Italy, espresso machine, and a good sized countertop convection oven. The middle aged dom behind the pastry case has her dark hair with its shock of white at the temple in a low bun and a black apron on over a white button down with a couple of buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. She has kind, dark eyes and though she gives Clint’s appearance a curious look she gives them the benefit of the doubt and smiles. 

The submissive server is dressed similarly, she’s maybe a dozen years younger than the dom, her inky black hair is up in a high ponytail that hangs down her back. Her shirt is untucked and she’s wearing black leggings and the sturdy black shoes that are common among servers and nurses the world over. She has a much more suspicious look in her own dark eyes as she comes over to take their order. 

When the serving slut approaches it sits up into Supplication, its throbbing ass back on its heels, knees spread wide, back straight and head held eye with its eyes on the floor, the backs of its wrists on its thighs.

“Find out what the specials are, Pet,” Clint is, or at least was, fluent in Italian whereas Phil has to rely on using Spanish or English to get by. As far as Phil can tell Clint still has the skills and talents he did before he was taken; it’s more like he’s a blank slate or clay to be molded, his personality hidden, or maybe worn away and Phil hopes to God it’s only temporary. 

The pet blushes in pleasure at being able to serve Master. It’s on it’s best behavior, not only for the potential of getting to sip from Master’s coffee tonight but also because it’s former Master had only let it out when he needed it to kill. It wants to prove to Master that it can be let out for more than that. 

Of all the things that had been done to it or it had been made to do, it hates having to kill and torture more than nearly anything. It’s almost better to be meat.

Almost. 

At least it was usually allowed to give them Master’s greatest Gift: a clean death. It knows how much easier those are to recover from than the alternative. He’d even been merciful enough to let it kill the ones he had had it torture instead of making them live with the damage it had done.

Master hasn’t said anything about needing it to kill anyone and had been clear about their agenda for the day but the pet can’t help checking the sight lines of the cafe, the positions of the other patrons, and how it will disable or kill in them should Master desire it.

«My Master», it can’t help feeling a rush of pride being able to tell the slut who he belongs to, «Would know your specials.»

The server raises a disdainful eyebrow at Phil and he shrugs helplessly, trying to convey that Clint’s obvious formality isn’t his idea. She narrows her eyes, looking from Clint’s face to Phil, taking in the bandages and bruises and then replies in rapid Italian, too quickly for Phil to follow. 

«Can he not speak for himself, then?» she asks, in a tone far too insolent for the pet’s liking. 

«It is the...» the perfect hesitates on the translation and settles on, «Dog’s duty to serve his Master,» it says, trying to remind her of her place. It’s hard to tell if she is real or not; the simulation has gotten so good that it is never sure. Whether she is or not makes little difference; it needs to reassure Master that the pet, at least, knows it’s place. 

«You don’t have to put up with that bullshit,» she says, lifting her chin to indicate its face and then looks over at Master, daring to meet his eyes, «Just because you are a sub doesn’t mean you have to let him treat you like an animal.»

Phil doesn’t understand the server’s words, but based on the way she glares at Phil it’s nothing flattering. When she realizes Phil hasn’t been able to follow her rapid Italian she continues to speak to Clint directly.

«Let me help you, dear; I have friends, a network, for helping submissives like you get out of abusive relationships. Look, you don’t have to say anything, just nod and we can get you away from him.»

«Master may do as he wishes with his property; it isn’t for worthless sluts to question,» the pet says angrily as the slut gasps, «The dog will not let you take it away from Master.»

Phil looks at Clint in concern, wishing he knew what she had said to make him so angry; at Clint’s reply the server turns a look of disgusted rage towards Phil.

“Pet, what did you just say?” 

“She was questioning your authority, Master. Your pet told her she was being insubordinate.”

No wonder she looks angry. Phil debates retreat for a moment, getting something to go and eating back at the apartment but Clint obviously needs the socializing and he’s not sure how much more harm he can do. And honestly, Phil admires the server for speaking up; most people wouldn’t, especially in Italy where the laws and, even more resistant to change, cultural norms strongly favor a dominant’s rights over their submissive’s; likely one of the reasons Quinn had chosen it as a base for his operation. 

«Please excuse him,» Phil says, using the little bit of broken Italian he knows, though that only seems to make her even angrier, “She’s right to do so, Pet. Please tell her that I’m not keeping you prisoner against your will.”

Phil isn’t sure if Clint can even grasp the concept of freedom right now; especially considering how deeply resistant he is to even the suggestion that Phil might someday relinquish the control Clint has given him. 

«My Master is as forgiving as he is generous. He approves,» the pet makes it clear from its tone that it does not, «Of your impertinence and bids his dog to inform you that the dog is his willing prisoner.»

Whatever Clint has said has the server replying with no small amount of venom in her voice, «Your ‘Master’ is the _dog_ and you deserve better than to be treated like chattel.»

The pet gasps in outrage and forgets itself, lunging at the serving slut, not sure what it’s going to do but knowing it wants to lash out at her for daring to insult its perfect Master.

Whatever she said has set Clint off; he looked about ready to claw her eyes out and maybe he would have if Phil hadn’t caught him with a hand around Clint’s throat and a soft, “ _Settle.”_

He hates putting Clint back Down so soon but he’s seen first hand that Clint is as lethal as ever and he isn’t willing to risk the server’s safety on the hope that Clint will obey Phil without it being an Order. 

The pet immediately rests back on its heels, returning to Supplication. It trembles with the need to protect its Master, barely held in check by his Master’s Voice. At least it’s senses have gone back to normal, the clink of espresso cups and cutlery no longer clanging in its ears, the colors less stark and eye-catching; the smells of the cafe no longer threaten to overwhelm it. Even its skin has stopped buzzing, calm radiating out from Master’s warm hand against its throat and as it takes inventory of itself it breathes deeply and feels itself settle back into that place where it’s ready to serve. 

“Your pet apologizes for losing control, Master. May it beg for your punishment?”

“No,” Phil says, unable to resist stroking Clint’s throat with his thumb, “But if you can’t stay calm, we’ll have to leave. Now, do you think you can be good?”

“Yes, Master,” stupid s— pet, it had promised to be on its best behavior and now look at it, embarrassing its Master in public, “Your pet is sorry, it promises, it won’t happen again.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” Master says. 

“If it pleases you, Master,” Clint says in obvious disagreement. 

“Pet,” Master says in warning, his fingers squeezing ever so slightly before he lets go of the pet’s throat.

“Yes, Master,” it says grudgingly, «It is sorry for losing control. My Master bids it apologize for its behavior.»

The server taps her foot and looks like she’s about two seconds from kicking them out.

“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m hungry and I’m sure you are too, so let’s skip the specials and just ask for a couple of warm prosciutto and fontina cornetti, a side of fruit, orange juice, and a hazelnut cappuccino.”

Part of him feels a little guilty for having coffee while denying Clint but it wouldn't be as much of a punishment if he doesn’t see what he’s missing. 

Once the server leaves with a threatening glance back at Phil, Clint closes his knees, places his palms down on the soft cushion, and shifts to lean against Phil’s leg under the table and rests his head on Phil’s knee. 

While they wait, Phil idly strokes Clint’s hair and pages through an English language newspaper, not paying any attention to the words. When their food comes he sets the paper aside and cuts one of the cornetti into bite sized pieces. 

He pops a bite in his mouth, knowing Clint won’t eat before he does, and then he holds a second piece down for Clint to take. 

Master holds out an amazing smelling bite for it right away, having only taken one bite for himself, and the pet is hesitant to take the morsel, anticipating it being snatched away at the last second. To its surprise, Master lets it take it and the taste of it bursts across its tongue in a riot of flavors. It moans and leans into Master as it chews.

“I’m glad you like it, Pet,” Master says, taking another bite for himself. He has two more before the pet swallows and then there’s immediately another bite on its lips. 

Phil takes sips of his cappuccino in between giving Clint bites of the cornetto. They’re as delicious as he remembers and he debates adding a third for them to share. Clint seems surprised the first time Phil holds down the orange juice for him and moans with as much gusto as he had for the cornetto. It’s borderline pornographic and he’s been fielding looks from the other patrons since they arrived, no few small amount continuing to watch them after the altercation with the server. 

Phil uses the fork to feed Clint bites of the fruit, unsure of his self control if he lets Clint lick his fingers. Clint seems let down and Phil wishes he would complain, but he never does. Barton would have at the very least mocked and taunted Phil but he supposes he should take Clint’s small moue of unhappiness as progress. 

It’s so peaceful and calming, Master is always ready with another bite of food or a sip of orange juice and it feels the last of its tension from dealing with the horrible serving slut slip away. 

There’s only a couple of bites of fruit left when Clint pulls out the bottle of painkillers and Phil says, “Good boy! I’m very proud of you, Pet.”

“Master!” The pet exclaims in shock, to be so freely praised goes against all expectations, “If… if it pleases you, Master.”

“It does. So much so that I’ll let you take it with some of my coffee,” Barton always preferred his coffee black, and a taste is more a tease than anything else, but it should keep Clint focused on behaving. 

It goes to open the bottle and stops short, the label says it’s ibuprofen; unless Master is reusing the bottle, these are the wrong pills. It hopes Master has brought the right ones, it doesn’t want to disappoint him. The bad slut in it wants to pretend it didn’t notice, doesn’t want to risk losing out on tasting Master’s cappuccino; which must be amazing, he didn’t even touch his juice after the first sip.

“Master, your pet is sorry, these are the wrong pills.”

“Let me see,” Phil says, concerned. He had been sure he had given Clint the right bottle, and he had, “No, Pet, this is right.”

“But Master, this will take the pain _away_ ,” and had been. All this time Master had been giving it a painkiller by mistake.

“Well, yeah.”

“But Master…”

“But what, Pet?” Phil asks, not liking where this is heading. 

“Didn’t you mean to give your pet something that would make it more sensitive?”

“No,” Phil says shortly, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose; once again he’s fallen into the trap of thinking they were on the same page and he resolves to be clearer going forward, “No, I didn’t. How is your pain now Pet, let’s say on a scale of one to ten where ten is the worst and if you weren’t in any pain at all it’d be zero?”

“Oh, a one, Master,” it answers easily. 

Clints never been a good judge of what level of pain is acceptable, but Phil has to accept his judgement for now. It doesn’t help that Clint’s been Down, just a little, since Phil had to Tell him to leave the server alone. Phil is letting him stay there, worried that if he brings Clint back Up that he’d just go right back Down with the hand feeding. 

“Here, sweetheart, you can finish my coffee, if you like,” Phil tells himself he’s not really undermining the punishment he had set, after all, Clint still didn’t get his own coffee, and it’s not even the way he likes it. 

“Real— that is, only if it pleases you, Master?”

He can see Master’s exasperated smile, a flash white teeth in his dark beard, and Master says, “Yes. Pet, it pleases me more than anything to make you happy.”

Well that just doesn’t make any sense. It’s the pet’s job to make Master happy, not the other way around. 

Except, rule number five is that the pet is to let Master take care of it, that doing so _is_ serving Master. Maybe making sure it is happy is also serving Master?

“Yes, Master,” it says, lifting its chin so that Master can rest the cappuccino cup to its lips. It takes a moment to breathe in the creamy nuttiness and is grateful it’s senses aren’t on overdrive anymore, knowing it would be overwhelmed otherwise. 

Phil is careful to follow Clint’s body language and grateful for the practice with the orange juice, it’s been years since he’s had a sub that liked hand feeding and there’s an art to having someone drink from your hands, as well as a level of trust he had forgotten about. 

He rests the cup on Clint’s lip and tilts it until the coffee’s just barely touching his lips. When his body leans in Phil tilts it more and when away less. He’s found that this lets Clint get as much to drink as he wants without either of them making a mess. 

It’s enough just to be allowed to smell Master’s coffee up close and it closes its eyes with a soft, short, whimper. It’s heart starts pounding and it takes a deep steadying breath, which doesn’t work at all, because now all it can smell is Master’s cappuccino, the scents of the cafe fading so far into the background that they disappear. 

Part of it wants to gulp the coffee down as fast as possible before it gets taken away but it doesn’t; both because it’s afraid that would upset Master and more selfishly because it wants to draw out the experience and make it last as long as possible; it thinks maybe it could store the memory away, to cherish and hold close during any future torments. But no. It can’t do that. Memories are bad, they only mean pain. It needs to just enjoy the moment while it lasts. 

Clint trembles and Phil starts to get concerned and wonders if he’s been reading Clint all wrong; it seemed like he liked the mocha protein bar that morning and had appeared motivated by coffee as both a positive and negative consequence, yet he hasn’t started drinking, the creamy espresso just wetting his bottom lip. Had Quinn done something to condition an aversion?

Phil starts to tilt the cup away but Clint whimpers again, his eyes flashing open, and then when Phil tilts it back Clint’s eyes flutter shut again. He parts his lip to let just a little of the coffee caress his tongue and makes a low sound of need, deep in his throat before leaning forward to pull more of the coffee between his lips. It takes every shred of Phil’s self control not to sweep Clint up into his lap and kiss the taste out of his mouth, to mold his body to Phil’s and sate the Hunger that keeps growing within him. 

The pet thought maybe it had taken too much time savoring the smell of Master’s coffee when he began to pull the cappuccino away but it seems he was just shifting in place? The pet peers over the cup to try and read Master’s body language and when it doesn't seem like Master is growing impatient the pet continues to take its time, closing its eyes again as it lets the almost not bitter enough liquid slide over its tongue and fill its mouth, and if the first taste had been thrilling, taking a mouthful and swallowing is exquisite. 

Master continues to let it drink and each of its three swallows are better than the last and it wishes the moment could last forever. 

When Clint’s finishes drinking Phil pulls the empty cup away and then rubs his thumb across Clint’s bottom lip, careful of the healing split, sweeping up the coffee staining his mouth. Clint flicks out his tongue, chasing the taste of the coffee and his eyes raptly follow Phil’s thumb all the way up to Phil’s own mouth. Clint swallows audibly as Phil sucks the last drop off of his thumb. 

The pet wishes it had been allowed to lick Master’s thumb clean and then more scandalously wonders what Master’s mouth tastes like. It ducks it’s head as it blushes, ashamed for even thinking of putting its filthy slut mouth on Master’s, no matter how much Master seems to like it. 

Phil spends a charged moment looking down at Clint; all thoughts of situational awareness or the danger they’re in fly out the window. He’s beautiful like this— he’s always beautiful, but here, on his knees with his head bowed and a light blush across his cheeks Phil wants to cherish him and ruin him all in equal measure. He reaches out and cups Clint’s chin. 

Master’s palm is warm against its cheek and it turns its head slightly to nuzzle it. When Master doesn’t object it dares to press its lips to Master’s palm. 

Phil’s control frays that much further, and he’s only saved by the server setting their check down with an intent look between Phil and Clint. He leaves cash and then stands, “Alright, Pet; lets see about getting you some clothes.”

“If it pleases you, Master,” the pet says dutifully, though it would prefer to keep wearing Master’s clothes; his jacket across its shoulders is all it needs and more. 

As they leave, the server bumps into Clint and Phil can tell she’s palmed something off to Clint. He pretends not to see it, having some idea of what’s at play. If the exchange hadn’t been so clumsy he might have been worried that she was one of Hawkeye’s old contacts trying to reach him for something unrelated to their current situation. 

Though, knowing the circles Clint kept, some of them would be obvious on purpose; either to deflect suspicion or as some sort of gambit. As it is, he approves of the sentiment. If he had seen a sub in Clint’s condition, behaving the way he is, Phil would have tried to intervene himself. 

The pet is about to excuse himself to the server; he had originally thought her a worthless slut, she has no collar and has to serve so many dominants, but she has free reign to move about the cafe and the rest of her mannerisms indicate that she obviously outranks the pet. 

She’s allowed eye contact with Master and the other dominants in the cafe and even more shocking, hasn’t always addressed Master or the other dominants in the cafe as Sir or Ma’am as is only proper; not to mention the most disrespectful tone she had taken with the dominant behind the pastry case, who appears to be her Mistress, when she had gone to get their order. 

Not once was she punished or even scolded for it by her Mistress, indicating a greater amount of freedom than the pet would have ever imagined.

Before it has a chance to apologize again, it feels her tuck a scrap of paper in its hand and when it glances at her she looks at Master and shakes her head. It’s a curious thing to do and when it unfolds the paper as they step outside it’s even more confused. It’s an address and phone number and the words, in Italian, «When you are ready.»

It holds out the paper to Master and asks, “Master?”

Master smiles and hands it back to the pet, “Hold on to it, sweetheart.”

Phil takes a couple seconds to memorize the address and phone number and plans on dropping off a donation for the rescue group before they leave Italy. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m mean and love cliffhangers so I’m posting this extra chapter today. 
> 
> I’ll let you decide if you want to read this one today or wait until tomorrow when the next couple of chapters go up. 😈

It may not be tailored, but the suit still looks stunning on Clint. Phil has him in a pale grey shirt and darker grey suit that fits as well as can be expected considering it’s off the rack. It’s loose now, but with a few decent meals and a little bit of Ezio’s magic he’ll stop traffic; especially with one of Ezio’s hand stitched corset vests. Phil feels that possessive pull at seeing his tie around Clint’s neck, knowing that everything Clint’s wearing right down to his underwear are clothes that Phil’s bought him. 

He splurges on handmade leather shoes and a leather jacket that nearly matches Phil’s and gets him a long cashmere scarf the same shade of blue as his eyes. Clint had pouted at losing Phil’s jacket but had smiled beatifically when Phil told him how happy it makes him to be able to dress Clint like this. 

While they’re at the leather shop he sees Clint eyeing the collars covetously and though part of him knows it’s wrong to get Clint a collar like this, that it carries enough significance for them both that it will be an extra layer to untangle as they work to get Clint back to himself, he can’t resist. 

The pet hasn’t been able to get used to having so much of its skin covered, but still it had to suppress its disappointment at no longer being allowed to wear Master’s clothes, even with the honor of the extra layers of the suit. It hadn’t made sense for it to be dressed while they slept, but then Master is full of strange whims and the pet understood Master wanting it to be clothed when leaving the apartment, even its former Master had it wear clothes when it was sent on a mission. 

There’s no mission now, no one to kill or hurt; in fact Master has been very clear that the pet is not to hurt anyone without his express permission. 

It’s both easier and harder to feel the layers of the suit Master has dressed it in; it finds its hand moving of its own accord to touch the knot of Master’s tie around its throat, seeking comfort in knowing it’s Master’s claim on its body, though it wishes it had a more visible symbol of Master’s ownership. 

“What do you think of this one, Pet,” Master asks, touching a slim black leather collar with a simple buckle.

“It’s beautiful, Master, but…”

“But?”

“It doesn’t appear to be very secure, Master.”

“Does it need to be?” Phil asks. Grant had preferred a thick chain with a heavy padlock, and he had been the only submissive Phil had ever collared; if Clint needs something like that, Phil will give it to him, but he’s always preferred signs of willing submission, “Do you need me to lock you up?”

The pet realizes that instead of a sign that Master doesn’t think it’s worthy of being locked up, it’s a show of trust; that the pet is bound not by the scrap of leather but by Master’s will and that he knows the pet won’t fight his domination. 

“No, Master. Your pet belongs to you without question.”

Phil closes his eyes at the way Clint’s words make him feel and calls the storekeeper over. She measures Clint’s neck and then sets out a selection of collars, including the one Phil had gravitated towards. Phil slowly undoes the purple silk tie, leaving the ends hanging to either side of Clint’s shirt collar, and then unbuttons the top couple of buttons of his shirt. He has Clint try the slim collar on and his breath catches. He turns Clint so that he can see it in the mirror and Clint lets out a soft, “Oh,” his fingers coming up to caress the supple leather. 

“It’s beautiful, Master,” the pet whispers, feeling safer than it thinks it ever has as it pushes down the faint feeling of dissatisfaction at not being allowed to properly beg for it.

“Not as beautiful as you are, Pet,” Phil says, leaning in close enough to place a kiss on Clint’s neck just above the collar before he can stop himself. He comes up and places another kiss on the unbruised side of his jaw and then another on his lips, just barely able to remind himself of all the reasons this is wrong, even as it feels oh so right. He pulls away before he can let the kiss develop from a soft press of lips into something more.

It’s hard not to kiss him again, Clint’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes dilated from where they stare down at Phil’s lips as if captivated; he licks his lip, leaving it shiny and Phil wants to bite it. 

Is there anything more incredible than it’s Master’s mouth? That he would grace the pet with the touch of it is beyond amazing and if feels itself start to slip further Down. Master hadn’t been mad at the way it had slipped Under when he had to reprimand it in the cafe and had let it stay in that comfortable place it had always thought of as Up before; the place that Master had taken it being something Above, where every sensation becomes overwhelming. 

After forcing Clint back Down at the cafe Phil had decided to leave him there. As worried as he is about the long term damage of Clint being Down all the time, he’s in enough pain while he’s Up that Phil is going to leave it to the professionals to determine the best way to wean Clint off of being constantly in some level of subspace. He hadn’t taken into account how his own Hunger would be put on alert with his sub being so vulnerable. 

“We’ll take it.”

He slowly buttons up Clint's shirt; it rests so that just the top edge of the collar shows, dark next to the pale grey fabric. He takes his time knotting the tie and when he’s done he smooths it out flat against Clint’s chest, a predatory smile crossing his face at the way Clint’s heart races beneath his fingertips. He brushes imaginary lint off of Clint’s shoulders and nearly kisses Clint again before he stops himself, stepping back.

Had the pet ever thought Master wasn’t cruel? His torments are sweeter than anything it could imagine, instead of a pain to be endured they’re to be treasured; it has never imagined anything as exquisite as feeling of Master’s lips deigning to ghost over its own and it whimpers in loss and need, not sure where one begins and the other ends, it’s body swaying after Master’s as he pulls away. 

“One last last stop, Pet,” Phil says as Clint mounts the back of the motorcycle and Phil hands the bag holding his sweats, shirt, and socks to Clint for him to hold on the ride to the SHIELD safehouse. 

If Phil’s right about the mole, if Quinn’s people are going to hit them anywhere, it will be here. It’s possible that Clint doesn’t have any information on Quinn’s operation, or even if he does if he’ll ever be able to give that information to SHIELD. 

There's also a chance that Quinn won’t want to eliminate Clint but to recapture him and Phil sure as hell isn't going to let that happen. Phil desperately wishes he could have left Clint at the apartment but he isn’t sure Quinn couldn’t trace them there and he wasn’t about to leave Clint alone and defenseless against Quinn. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

“Stay close,” Phil says, checking the buildings for possible snipers, “Let me know if you see anything that looks out of place.”

“Yes, Master.”

They’re clear at least until they get through the safehouse door. SHIELD will know as soon as they enter, so Phil will have to be quick in making Clint’s passport. 

The apartment itself is a little musty. It’s one that is rarely used, which increased the likelihood of it being empty, but also means that using it will flag it in the SHIELD database as an anomaly, reducing their safe window even further. 

Phil sits at the desk and turns on the computer, waiting for it to boot up. Next to him, Clint gracefully sinks into his default kneeling position, knees spread, wrists on thighs and it has no right looking as good as it does with Clint in a suit. The leather of his jacket matches the collar peeking out above the purple tie and the small silver rings in his ears complement the shades greys of his suit. 

Phil wants to peel of each layer until there’s nothing left but his collar, to—

Passport. 

They’re here to get Clint a passport.

Clint’s face is in no shape for a passport photo, the combination of his broken nose, split lip and the cut above his eye are chained together by the bruises that run up the side of his face from chin to forehead. 

Phil’s searches through what he has on his phone but most of his pictures are inappropriate, either because he’s caught Clint laughing, or flipping off the camera, or both. 

Or, Phil’s breath catches as he looks at his favorite one, they’re only for Phil.

_The angle is far enough back that you can see Clint’s belly button, that first drop of come showing just beneath it if you know what to look for. The lighting is just right to contour his abs, pecs, and arms. His wrists are bound over his head by the dark fabric of his shirt. His eyes are wide and vulnerable, his irises a thin blue ring around his blown pupils; tear tracks glisten on his cheeks and Phil’s managed to get a sharp enough image that a single tear is clearly defined. Clint’s full Cupid’s bow lips are parted in a gasp that’s frozen in time._

That photo has gotten Phil through more than a few rough nights but now he can look up from his phone and Clint is right there in living color and Phil snakes out a hand, wrapping it around the back of Clint’s neck and pulling him into a crushing, Claiming kiss. He plunders Clint’s mouth with his own and Clint moans, opening up for him beautifully, letting Phil take, and take, and _take._

When Master first grabs its neck it’s expecting to be forced into Obeisance and is prepared to go face down to the floor, arms stretched out palms up, and it felt a stirring of relief as life finally approached something that could be called normal, but, no, Master pulls it in for a kiss.

The kiss is like nothing it's ever known and it wants to wrap its arms around Master’s neck, press its body to his to show him how deeply it’s affected but it holds on to its last shred of obedience because above all else it wants to be _good_.

It can’t quite keep itself silent and it moans at the way Master squeezes its neck as he bites and licks his way into its mouth, its body taut as it fights to remain in place. 

It whimpers as it tastes blood from the split on its lip, the small pinprick of pain and Master’s command of its body threatening to take it Down, Down, Down.

Phil sucks Clint’s lip into his mouth and scraps it with his teeth before plunging his tongue back into the sweet warmth of Clint’s mouth, stroking Clint’s tongue, trying and failing to coax it into battle with his own and he breaks off with a frustrated cry, pulling back only so far as to rest his forehead against Clint’s as they pant.

It’s over much too soon and the pet revels once more in Master’s particular brand of cruelty, to show it all the ways he knows how to play its body, to make it feel in ways it never thought possible and then to take it away again. It wants more than ever to please Master, to be pleasing to Master, to do anything and everything to make him happy. 

It will ache so much more when it inevitably fucks up and Master punishes it at last. 

Phil grips the back of Clint’s neck tightly, intending to squeeze it once and then let him go but instead he holds Clint in place as he licks over Clint’s lower lip, only stopping at Clint sharp indrawn breath as Phil’s tongue reaches the split. Phil presses a gentle kiss there and finally lets go, leaning back in the chair to look over his submissive. 

It dares let its eyes flick upwards, it’s gaze drawn to Master’s mouth like a magnet. Master’s lips are flushed within the confines of his beard and the slut wants so badly to kiss him back and then it flushes at the insolent thought and it prays Master will forgive it when he reads the logs even as it's unable to tear its eyes away from his mouth. 

Clint’s suit is untouched and he doesn’t have a hair out of place, well, not anymore than it always is, but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes— his eyes are resting on Phil’s mouth with longing; the most direct expression Phil’s gotten from him yet and his resolve to do everything he can to pull Clint back to himself deepens. 

Under the weight of Master’s gaze the pet’s eyes fall to the floor where they belong and it swallows. This is it. It braces itself for the beating that it deserves for letting its slut eyes dare to be so high without permission, but it never comes. 

Phil clears his throat and looks back down at his forgotten phone, at the photo that had launched him into the kiss and he quickly swipes it away; they’re in too much danger here and Phil scolds himself for allowing himself to become distracted from their purpose. 

He lets out a frustrated sigh turns back to the monitor. Here’s hoping the mole won’t be able to tell that Phil’s logged in or that someone is accessing Clint’s SHIELD file. Once he’s in he makes quick work of creating a new passport for Clint. 

The pet focuses on keeping still for Master; this, at least, is something it has practiced. It knows it can silently keep position next to Master while he works for hours. 

_‘Better safe than sorry,’_ Phil thinks, making him one for William Alexander and James Kitsom in addition to his Jerry Pierce cover. Whoever’s watching won’t know which aliases Phil has set up, but it won’t hurt to have the flexibility to change things up as needed. 

Sooner than the pet expects, Master stands and says, “Okay. Let’s go.” 

He holds his right hand down and the pet hesitantly nuzzles Master’s palm, wincing at the pressure on its nose, Master lets out a small breath that sounds like approval and so the pet turns it’s head and, heart racing, it presses its lips to Master’s skin. 

Phil shifts his hand, bringing his fingers under Clint’s chin and gently urges him upward. Once he’s standing, Phil can’t stop himself from pressing his face into the side of Clint’s neck and breathing in the warm scent of his submissive. He rests his right hand on the other side of Clint’s neck and slides his left under his leather and suit jackets to press at the small of his back, holding him close.

The pet trembles at the tender way Master holds it and it’s hands come up involuntarily to touch Master’s waist before it remembers itself and jerks its hands back to its sides, clenching its fists to keep from further disobedience. 

“It’s okay,” Master says, shifting to press his smooth bearded cheek to the rough stubble of the pet’s jaw and murmurs in his ear, “You can touch me.”

The pet carefully places its fingertips back on Master’s waist, and then his hands as Master says, “I want you to touch me.”

Clint strokes his thumbs over Phil’s hips and Phil has a sense memory of Clint’s hands being rougher, more confident, of sliding around and squeezing his ass, of—

No. It does neither of them any good for Phil to think about Clint like that. 

Instead, he presses a kiss to Clint’s ear and pours himself into his words, “I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I should have. I need you to know. God, I love you so much it kills me. I don’t think I could survive without you.”

“M—Master?” The pet can’t believe what it’s hearing, it’s hands squeeze Master involuntarily and it trembles in his arms.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay, C— Pet, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.” 

~~~

The pet is just about to get on the bike when something across the street catches its eye. It only has a second, and it shouts, “Master!” The pet throws itself in front of him and feels more than hears the ‘ _thft_ , _thft_ ’ as a pair of tranquilizer darts hit its jacket. 

“Pet! On the bike now. Go, go, go!”

Pet turns towards Master at the same time there’s another ‘thft’ and one of the darts hits Master right in the jugular.

“Fuck!” Phil feels himself start to lose consciousness almost immediately. As his vision goes dark he does the only thing he can think of to save his sub, he can’t lose Clint again, “ _Clint,_ **_RUN_**!” 

The last thing he sees is Clint’s eyes glaze over as the Order sinks him deep into subspace, and he feels some measure of relief knowing Clint will Obey. 

Phil hopes it’s enough. 


	6. Chapter 6

The pet feels the Order tear through it and it Obeys, it has to Obey, but Master is falling and the pet can’t leave his avatar unprotected; it sweeps Master into its arms as he collapses and takes off with no thought of where or why, only to follow Master’s Order to ‘ **Run**!~ **Run**!~ **Run**!’

When it finally swims up from the depths of subspace it’s crowded into the corner of a side alley, curved protectively around Master. He’s breathing shallowly but appears okay otherwise; the pet sighs in relief. 

Is Master observing the pet? 

Is this some sort of test or game?

It hears footsteps behind it and feels a shiver of trepidation. The pet turns, keeping itself between Master’s avatar and whatever the threat may be. It’s heart nearly stops. It recognizes the dominant standing there. 

He’s it’s former Master’s favorite guest. The one who debated on cutting its face after its former Master had ordered it to attack him. The pet had gotten off easy, having only to provide a quick, if rough, blow job.

“You stupid slut,” the dom says with a sneer in his voice, “Did you really think you could get away? Quinn owns you. _There is no escape in the Framework._ ”

Fear licks up inside it like a flame; it had just been so far Down that it isn’t stable yet and it feels the waves of subspace trying to suck it back Under.

“No!” 

_‘Worthless sluts don’t get to say ‘no’.’_

_Rule number one, the Pet is not allowed to call itself a worthless slut._

“Master, please!” It begs, reaching back and grabbing hold of the edge of Master’s jacket, daring to tug at it in the hopes that Master will respond. 

“Who? Phil?” The dom laughs cruelly as it flinches at the Forbidden word, “No, slut, that’s just a program. A way for Quinn to toy with you. _Everything you do is for his amusement._ ”

It moans in dismay as it’s tugged just a little deeper, making it harder to resist the man’s Words. 

It pushes itself to ride the swell, telling itself it can’t be true. It _can’t_. 

“It’s Master’s pet now,” Master took over the Framework. He saved his pet, “He’s— Master is real. The pet belongs to him!”

It refuses to believe the dom. This has to be a test of some sort, a way to ensure the pet’s loyalty. The dom is trying to convince it to betray its Master but it knows its place is at Master’s feet. 

Master may be giving the pet enough rope to hang itself ( _hemp between its fingers, around its neck_ ), to see if the pet will lose faith and go crawling back to its former Master but the pet knows, it _knows_ , Master has taken control of the Framework. If it’s former Master was still in control it would already be back in the Chair, or thrown to the guards as meat. 

The dom laughs again, “You really believe that, slut? Quinn asked me to bring you back alive instead of just resetting you; he’s got a special series of Punishments lined up.”

The pet shakes it’s head as fear becomes terror. 

_Rule number two, the Pet is not allowed to die._

“Phil,” the dom takes pleasure in using it’s Master’s name; laughing as it’s wracked with pain, but the Forbidden word also bolsters it’s resolve, if it doesn’t belong to Master, why would his name be Forbidden? “On the other hand doesn’t matter. He’s served his purpose. Maybe I’ll kill him in front of you, let you watch him die before Quinn deletes him? Or maybe it will be fun to have you watch Quinn turn him into a worthless slut like you.”

“NO!” The pet shouts in horror. They can’t— that’s not possible. 

“Even better, maybe Quinn will make you help.”

It's a test, it has to be; but what does Master want it to do? 

_Rule number five, the pet is to allow Master to take care of it._

It does the only thing it can think of and shifts into Offering, hoping that Master is listening and will answer its plea, “Please, Master, your pet wishes only to obey.”

There’s a fraught silence as the pet waits, it’s breathing fast and shallow, nearly panting. It prays it’s made the right choice. 

“ _Very good, slut_ ,” the dom finally says. 

The flood of relief and pleasure is overwhelming and the pet drops into Obeisance as its whole body tingles, “Thank you, Sir.”

“After Phil,” the pet cowers on the ground, twitching as if kicked, “Took over the Framework he asked me, as a friend, to monitor you and to test your fidelity. Supplication,” the man says, pulling it up by its hair. The pet comes up to its spread knees and rests the backs of its wrists on its thighs. The shirt, suit jacket, and leather coat Master had purchased for it cover the black bands of its former Master’s ownership and for once its grateful for the layers of clothing, strange as they feel. 

“Now, what are the rules?” Master’s friend demands, letting go of the pet’s hair and squeezing the pet’s sore throat with his right hand.

“The pet is not allowed to call itself a worthless slut.”

The dom’s laughter is anything but pleasant, “Well now, _Phil_ ,” this time it can’t flinch, the dom has it held fast, and he smiles a wicked smile, “Has always had a cruel sense of humor. We all know that you’ll never be anything more than a worthless slut.”

“But… But Master said it is his pet, Sir.”

“Really? What made him think he would be able to make a cumslut like you into a pet?”

“Master…” the pet’s voice is barely above a whisper, “Master asked it what it wanted to be…”

The dom laughs that short dark laugh again, “We both know you’ll never be anything more than a filthy painslut.”

The pet— slut— it nods its head sadly, “Yes, Sir. It offered to be Master’s fuck toy, but Master chose pet.”

“Of course he would; you don’t deserve to be fucked. I’m sure he barely tolerates your touch.”

“Yes, Sir,” the slut confirms, blinking back tears.

“Is that his only rule?”

“No, Sir.”

Master’s friend slips his fingers under its collar and shakes it once, roughly, “How many are there?”

”Five, Sir.”

“Well, go on then; what’s the next one.”

“The pet—

“Slut.”

“Sir?”

“Phil,” every time the dom uses the Forbidden word it thinks it might get easier to bear, but it never does, “Might like listening to you pretend to be something you’re not, but I don’t. Now,” he wraps his fingers back around its throat, “What are you?”

“But, Sir, Master’s rule…”

“What were his exact words?”

“Master doesn’t want to hear it call itself a worthless slut.”

“So, it’s not that you aren’t a worthless slut, it’s that you’re so worthless he doesn’t even want to hear you say it.”

The slut’s breath catches and it wishes it weren’t true, but it knows in its heart it is the lowest of the low; Master’s friend must be right.

“Yes, Sir,” the slut says miserably. 

“I don’t have the patience for that kind of nonsense. What are you?”

“A…” it draws a shaky breath; it doesn’t know what to do, torn between following the rules and obeying a direct order. It decides to go with the truth, “A worthless slut, Sir.”

“Good,” the slut feels sparks of pleasure at the praise, even as its sickened by disobeying one of Master’s rules, “Alright, the rest of the rules.”

“The… the slut is not allowed to die, Sir.”

“So if I were to keep squeezing,” Master’s friend asks, tightening his hand, allowing it just enough air to speak.

“It would… it would have to stop you, Sir,” it knows at least three ways to get out of the man’s hold; hopefully it won’t have to do so. It knows all too well the ways the man will retaliate and with no more resets— it doesn’t bear thinking about. 

“Hmmm,” his hand relaxes and the pet sucks in a deep breath, more relieved at not having to potentially hurt Master’s friend then at having the grip on its throat loosen, “Next?”

“The pet—”

The dom backhands it hard enough to make its ears ring and it has to blink back its tears, “What did I say about you pretending to be something you’re not?”

“The slut is sorry, Sir,” it chokes out.

“What kind of slut?”

“The… the worthless slut is sorry, Sir,” there’s no crash of thunder and lightning, it isn’t transported to the Red Room or turned into meat. Master’s friend is right, it only has to be careful not to call itself a worthless slut when Master is logged on.

The dom backhands it again, just as hard, if not harder, than before, “Don’t forget it again. Continue.”

“The slut,” the dom raises his hand and the slut quickly corrects itself, “The worthless slut is not allowed to choke on Master’s cock— But…”

The man squeezes just enough to let the pet know it should continue, “But Master will not use his slut until it is better trained.”

“Doesn’t it make sense that you aren’t to choke on any cock?”

The pet closes its eyes, “Yes, Sir. Number four is that the slut isn’t to touch Master’s cock.”

“And why is that, slut?”

“It… it isn’t worthy.”

“And the last rule?”

“It is supposed to let Master take care of it.”

The man rubs his finger almost gently over the top edge of its collar, “And he’s already let you beg for his collar?”

“No, Sir. Master picked it out but he wouldn’t let his pet —his slut! It’s Master’s worthless slut,” it says, cringing, “He wouldn’t let his worthless slut beg for it.”

“Well, then, see; he obviously realizes you’re still a worthless bit of fuck meat, no matter how pretty he dresses you. Your place is naked and on your knees as a ready and willing cumrag, isn’t it?”

The slut blinks away it’s tears, it knows Master’s friend is right, “Yes, Sir.”

He sighs, “You’ve done well, or as well as a worthless slut like you can be expected to do. I’m allowed to give you a reward, though I’m not sure you’ve been good enough to earn it.”

“Please, Sir, it wants to be good. It’s trying, Sir.”

“Alright. If you beg nicely I’ll let you suck my cock. Your Master doesn’t want you to get out of practice and you certainly aren’t going to get his cock any time soon. Lucky for you, I offered to show him what a good little cocksucker you can be.”

“Oh, please, Sir? Please let it serve you, let the,” the pet— no, it knows what it is, “Worthless slut suck your cock? It knows it doesn’t deserve it but it’s mouth is wet and hot and it knows how to use its tongue to please you. Please, Sir? Please?”

The dom sighs, “I guess that will do. Now, remember, if you use choke I’ll have to punish you and without a reset— Well. Try not to fuck it up, if you can.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“And slut? No hands.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The dom is wearing a thick leather belt and the slut tastes blood as it unbuckles it with its teeth; it thinks maybe it has reopened its split but when it checked with its tongue it knows it hasn’t. Of course, it knows the man has a slut of his own, it heard its former Master talk about it being brought into the Framework.

_“Grant’s well behaved enough for now and my boy already loves pain and humiliation more than any sub I’ve ever trained. There’s nothing he wouldn't do for me.”_

The memory blurs into a different glitch.

_“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”_

_Clint glances up, hand inches away from the plate with the sad looking slice of pizza, to see a sub almost as tall as Clint and even better looking. He has dark brown hair, soulful brown eyes, and a pleasant, though somewhat calculating, smile. The sleeves of his black turtleneck are pushed up to his elbows, showing off rings of bruises around his tanned wrists; if not for those Clint would have pegged him as a dominant._

_“You’d be better off pouring some ketchup on a piece of cardboard. Try the burritos.”_

_Clint’s tempted to get the pizza anyway, being told what to do always raises his hackles, but he could really use a friend._

_It’s his first day at the Triskelion. His morning had been eaten up by paperwork, the second half of the day promises more of the same, and he hasn’t even seen Restraint. The other agents he’s talked with have treated him with either suspicion or awe and he’s dying to know what the rumor mill is saying about him._

_“Thanks…?” Clint fishes for a name._

_“Grant Ward, Task Force,” Ward holds out his hand and Clint shakes it; it’s firmer than he’s expecting even though he of all people should know better than to stereotype another submissive._

_“Clint Barton.”_

_“Oh, I know.”_

_“You know?”_

_“You’re Phil’s boy.”_

_Clint feels a flush of pleasure followed by one of anger. Just because he wants to scene with the dom doesn’t mean he’s his boy. Clint doesn’t_ belong _to anyone. And never will._

_And he’s definitely not jealous of the familiar way Ward’s voice curls around Restraint’s name._

_He grabs the pizza and turns his back on Ward, regretting both choices immediately as he notices the plate is lukewarm at the same time as he feels the burn from Ward’s gaze at his back._

_“Oh, this is going to be good,” Ward’s mocking voice follows him._

_So much for making friends._

The glitches are getting more and more random and it knows it will have to talk to Master about them soon. It pushes away the memory of the sub, _‘rival’_ an inner voice supplies, and concentrates on serving Master’s friend. 

The dom gets impatient, dragging the slut back by the hair with one hand and letting go of its throat with the other; he growls, “For fucks sake, I’ll do it myself.”

He finishes opening his pants and pulls out his long, hard cock, letting it and his balls rest just over the top of his underwear. He squeezes the sluts sore jaw painfully, digging his fingers in and he forces the slut’s mouth open, “Get started, slut; and remember, your Master is going to review the logs so you better make this good.”

The slut starts by leaning and pressing its bandaged nose into the dark curls at the base of the dominant’s cock; it breathes in the scent of warm skin, gun oil, and leather, so different from Master’s sweet woodsmoke and coffee. It uses little kitten licks to work its way up the underside of the dom’s cock and then takes the tip into its mouth. It works his frenulum with the tip of its tongue and hums in pleasure at the dom’s begrudging, “Good.”

It sucks in just the tip of his cock and wishes it had its hands to massage his shaft, or cradle his balls— it could be a much better slut if it could. It concentrates on sucking it’s mouth down around the dom’s cock and massaging the warm length of it with its tongue.

If only Master would let it worship him this way. It feels a flush of shame. It should know by now not to question its betters. 

And of course it’s not really a pet— it’s so laughably far away from being a pet that it’s ridiculous. No wonder Master had questioned it when it had dared suggest it; the only thing that makes sense is if Master is using ‘pet’ to mock it. Master’s friend is right; it is still the same worthless slut it has always been, that it will always be, and sluts are meant to serve, their holes and hands tone used at Master’s pleasure. If only Master would use it himself. 

_Rule number four, the slut is not allowed to touch Master’s cock.”_

Master has refused to let it die, but also refused to let it worship him. Worshiping another will only help for so long. 

It’s former Master took immense pleasure in giving the slut conflicting orders, forcing it to disobey and then punishing it for its disobedience. It’s only natural for Master to want to do the same. Master is perhaps the crueler of the two, at least it’s former Master had been swift with enacting his punishments, however much he liked to draw out the slut’s pain. 

The slut moans as it sucks up and down on the dom’s cock, saliva and precum mixing to drip on his balls and the slut pulls off quickly to lap at its slut juice before it can slide off into the dom’s underwear. It presses the back of its wrists into its thighs, forcing itself to resist the urge to touch the dom’s cock, or even worse, it’s own straining cock. It can feel the wet tip of its useless fuckstick start to soak through the decadently soft fabric of the royal purple boxer briefs Master had dressed it in and it misses the simplicity of its loin cloth. 

The slut licks it’s tongue up, down, and around the dom’s cock before sucking on the tip again. 

The main purpose of its loin cloth had been to keep its slut juices off of Master’s other things, though as Master hasn’t punished it yet for far graver infractions, he may not punish it for staining its clothing with its precum. 

It swallows around the long cock Master’s friend forces it down its throat and the slut shivers in fear, lust, and anticipation as it fights down the need to choke.

_Rule number three, no choking._

The dom’s hands twist painfully in its hair as he forcefully fucks the slut’s face until he cums, “That’s it, cockslut, take it. Take it all. This is what you were made for— fuck, take it, take it, swallow it all, you worthless slut.”

The slut swallows for what feels like forever and then it gasps as its throat is finally free. It feels the last spurts of cum on its tongue it swallows that too before licking its lips, feeling a sting as it reaches the split that will never heal at this rate. 

“Thank you, Sir, for the gift of your cum,” it pants. 

The dom pats it’s head in a way he never has before, almost affectionately, and says in a breathless voice, “Passable.”

Even such mild approval is enough to have it thrusting it’s hips at the pleasure it creates and it can’t quite Lee back its moan. 

“Looks like you’ve wound yourself up, slut,” Master’s friend says as he nudged it’s swollen cock none too gently with his boot, causing it to wince.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you want to cum?”

“May… May it wait for Master, Sir?”

“Hmmm. No. Better to deal with it now,” he tugs at the slut’s collar, “Up.”

“Yes, Sir,” it says, closing its eyes as it stands.

Master’s friend pulls it close and thrusts his thigh between the slut’s legs. His lips nearly brush the slut’s ear as he Orders, “ _Ride it, slut_.”

Part of it wants to resist, to fight the dom’s Voice; it thinks maybe it could, even though this will be easier if it’s following a command. 

It doesn’t want this, it doesn’t want to cum, not with another dom; not humping his thigh in an alley while his Master’s avatar is crumpled behind it. 

“Please, Sir,” it asks, hot tears slipping out from under its eyelids as it tries an experimental thrust; the pressure on its cock in the tight confines of its underwear and pants is unlike anything it’s felt before, it feels so good even as it feels so wrong, “Please let it wait.”

The slap on its ass would be practically unnoticeable if it weren’t for the deep welts from last night's caning and it yelps and starts thrusting faster.

“There you go, slut; _rub yourself off, use your fingers to pull on those nipple rings,”_ the dom loosens Master’s tie and for a moment it’s afraid the dom is going to remove it, but instead he unbuttons the top of its shirt and wraps his hand more tightly around the slut’s throat, pushing the collar up as high as it can go and digging his fingers under it and into its skin. 

The slut cries out in pain and pleasure as it pushes the leather jacket and suit coat out of the way and grabs the nipple rings through its shirt; it knows it won’t last long like this, that it can’t.

Everything but the friction on its cock, the pain/pleasure from its nipples and the hand around its throat fade to the background and soon it’s begging against its will panting in anticipation of being denied, “Please, Sir? Please let this worthless slut cum?”

“ _Do it_ ,” he commands and then there’s a sharper pain at the join of its neck where Master’s bruise is, _‘No, no, no, not Master's bruise,’_ it wants to push the dom away, to stop him for overlaying a new bite mark over its Master’s but it knows it can’t and it just wishes this would all stop and then it’s cuming and cuming and cuming.

Before it has time to recover its being pushed to the ground, “ _Clean up your mess, filthy slut_ ,” Master’s friend Orders it, using its hair to pull its face to the stain it’s cum has left on his cargo pants.

It’s a dirty, dirty slut, getting its tears and spit and cum everywhere, the combination of its slut juices just make the wet patch on the dom’s cargo pants darker, and it’s a relief when he says, “Enough!” and kicks it back onto the street. It yelps when it’s sore ass hits the cold ground, and scrabbles into Supplication.

“What do you say, slut?”

The slut has to swallow a couple times before its able to get out a trembling, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Phil won’t be back for a couple more hours. Try not to get into trouble in the meantime.”

Master’s friend leaves it kneeling there in the alley, shivering from its ordeal as much as from the cold seeping in through the cumstain on its pants to its wet and sticky cock. 

~~~

Phil’s head aches like tequila and regret and the ache only compounds when he finally opens his eyes to the afternoon light and looks around the room he’s in. 

It’s barely large enough for two narrow beds, the one Phil’s not on top of is neatly made with a colorful quilt, his leather jacket and suit coat lying in the middle of it. There’s a small wooden cross hanging above the nightstand between the beds that’s slipped upside down, otherwise the room is bare. 

Sitting up feels like a mistake and he groans, then his memories of the last day or so come crashing over him and he stands up too quickly and has to sit down again. He barely keeps the panic from his voice as he calls out, “Clint!”

An unassuming man, medium height, medium coloring, slightly pudgy with indeterminate blondish-brownish hair and excellent taste in suits steps into the open doorway, “Hush now. You’ll disturb the other guests. How are you feeling?”

The accent’s English and the suit Saville row. Where on earth is he? Doesn’t matter. Phil ignores the question, “Where’s Clint?” 

When the man doesn’t answer quickly enough Phil pushes himself to his feet and staggers, catching himself on the nightstand, “ ** _Where is my submissive_**?”

He makes his Voice strong enough that even an alpha level dominant would have to obey, but instead the man just tsks and says, “None of that now. I won’t have you disturbing the subs; they’re nervous enough as it is, what with having a dominant in the house.”

“You’re not a dom?” Phil asks with a frown. Even someone as powerful as Phil would have felt the pull of that Command but this man isn’t so much ignoring it as it’s beneath his notice. 

“Oh, heavens no! That’s not really our sort of thing.”

“Our?”

“How’s Sleeping Beauty then, Angel?” They’re interrupted by another Brit; tall and thin with sharp cheekbones, pale skin, dark reddish hair, and darker sunglasses. He’s wearing too much leather and snakeskin shoes; a smirk slithers across his face as he says, “Awake. Fantastic. His boy’s been asking after him.”

Phil gets a calculated once over and the smirk takes up permanent residence, “He’ll be glad you’re up. It was like pulling teeth to get him to step away, and of course the moment he does you go and wake up. Rude, that’s what that is.”

“Be nice.”

“Like hell.”

The first man bustles over next to Phil and rights the cross and the smirk becomes a scowl, “There. That’s better. Be a dear, Crowley, and collect, Clint was it? Collect Clint for us? I’ll get…”

“Phil.”

“I’ll get Phil caught up to speed.”

Z. Fell and Anthony Crowley run St. Beryl’s, a halfway house for runaway submissives. They have chapters all over the world and had been checking in on the Florence location when Clint had shown up at their door with an unconscious Phil and a scrap of paper with their address.

There followed a brief discussion and an agreement was made that Phil would be allowed to rest in one of the empty rooms so long as he stayed there and left as soon as he was able. 

Apparently Clint’s suit had been quite the mess and had just gotten back from the cleaners, “He’s in the other room changing; shouldn’t be but a minute. We had our doctor look him over; he’s in rough shape, and not just physically. He has all the signs of subspace addiction. We’ve got a couple pamphlets that may help,” Fell gives Phil a surprisingly piercing look, “I have to be honest, if he hadn’t been adamant that you rescued him from the dominant who abused him you would have woken up under very different circumstances.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. I promise you, one way or another, Quinn will pay for what he’s done.”

Just then Crowley returns, Clint a few steps behind and to the left.

“Master!” The slut— pet— slut— it doesn’t know which is right anymore, all it knows is that it’s grateful Master has logged back in— throws itself gratefully to Master’s feet and begins kissing the top of his shoe.

“No, baby, don’t— come here,” Phil half urges, half pulls Clint to his feet and takes a quick inventory, running his hands lightly across Clint’s shoulders and down his sides. He cradles Clint’s face and gently kisses the bruise on his left cheek, worrying about what other new damage may be hidden from view.

It whimpers under Master’s inspection, sure that it will be found at fault for something, but instead of reprimanding it Master kisses it’s cheek and it wants to melt into a puddle of confused relief. 

“Thank God,” Phil says, pulling Clint in for a hug, pressing his face into the crook of Clint’s neck and just holding him for several breaths, “I can’t lose you again— I just can’t.”

Crowley clears his throat and says, surprisingly gentle for all his sharp edges, “Yes, well. We’ll just let you get yourselves sorted. Az and I will be heading out soon and...”

“We can’t have you staying here unattended. You understand, I’m sure,” Fell says. 

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Phil says, stroking a thumb under Clint’s new bruise, “We have a flight to catch in,” he checks his watch and swears, “Damn, I don’t think we have time to grab our things and get to the airport.”

“Crowley can drive you, if that will help?”

“Crowley can what?” Fell looks expectantly at Crowley, who scowls in response and then smiles with too many teeth, “Of course I can. You _are_ coming with, aren’t you, Angel?”

Fell turns a bit green and swallows before squaring his shoulders, “Yes, of course.”

Crowley’s car is a beautiful classic Bentley, a sleek black beast of a machine. Phil understands Fell’s reaction, viscerally, as they race through the streets of Florence as if the hounds of hell were after them. 

The back seat is small enough that there isn’t room for Clint to even try to curl up on the floor, a fact that Phil would be more grateful for as Clint presses into him, fingers clenching in Phil’s jacket, if there were seatbelts. 

Against all odds, they make it to both the safehouse and then the airport safely. Crowley and Fell take their leave, Fell pushing half a dozen pamphlets into Clint’s hands with titles like ‘ _Recovering from Subspace Addiction’_ , _‘Surviving and Thriving without Domination’,_ and _‘Is This Relationship Healthy’_.

It isn’t until their plane takes off that Phil finally lets himself relax a little. He threads his fingers through Clint’s and lays his head on Clint’s shoulder, “Get some rest, Pet.”

“If it pleases you, Master,” Clint says, stifling a yawn, and Phil can’t really blame him for not wanting to sleep. He hums a little bit of the song that had been playing on Crowley’s radio when they had been dropped off, _‘You sit by me and everything's fine’,_ and lets himself just enjoy being close to his submissive. 


	7. Chapter 7

_“Who’s my pretty little slut?” Phil hides his wince. This is about what Grant needs, not Phil._

_“Oh, Master,” Grant says, big brown eyes staring up at Phil from where he kneels at Phil’s feet._

_Something’s wrong._

_He would do anything for Grant._

_“_ **Answer me, slut. Who do you belong to**?” _He Orders._

_No, he would never._

“ _You. I belong to you, Master.”_

_“That’s right, you’re mine. Open up, I’m going to Mark you inside and out.”_

_Grant opens his mouth and a snake slithers out, wrapping around Grant’s throat, choking him._

_“He’s not yours anymore,” the snake says with Garrett’s voice, “You couldn’t give him what he needs.”_

_Grant claws at the snake, trying to pull it off._

_“He’s mine now; isn’t that right, my worthless little slut,” the snake hisses._

_Grant shakes his head ‘no’ and reaches out to Phil. Their fingers entwine but Grant keeps getting further and further away and Phil can’t save—_

_Jane is tied to the bed, one hand stretched out and attached to the headboard by a twist of rope— No. Not a headboard, one of those clear plexi-glass boards. It has a constellation plotted out, each star had been labeled with Clint’s name or one of his cover identities but they’re lined through and written beneath each one is a different word: slut, dead, lies, owned, lost, pet. The constellation looks like a snake._

_“Show me what you like, sweet slut,” Phil’s fingers are entwined with Jane’s as they stroke in between the slick folds of her pussy._

_Something’s wrong._

_Jane shyly shakes her head ‘no’, a blush staining her cheeks. She begs in a small voice, “Please, sir, don’t make me?”_

_What? Jane has never been shy a day in her life. Even less so in bed, more often demanding what she wants rather than asking and he loves her for it._

_“That wasn’t a request._ **Show** **me** , **Jane** ,” _Phil’s Voice curls around her mind and she brings their fingertips up to her clit, her eyes vacant, “Good girl.”_

_No! He would never use his voice so recklessly._

_She gasps as she starts moving their fingers faster and faster._

_“Who does this pussy belong to?”_

_“You, Master.”_

_No._

_“Who do you belong to?”_

_“You, Master, I belong to you.”_

_No!_

_The snake has slithered down from the board and around her neck. It turns and winks at Phil before baring its fangs, a drop of poison collecting on the tip before falling into Jane’s mouth. He’s moving in slow motion, the friction of time holds him back and he can’t stop the snake from striking, he can’t save—_

_Clint kneels in Jane’s laboratory, there are clear boards up all over the room covered with diagrams and figures. Jane is working the one next to Clint, she has a measuring tape and after measuring the circumference of Clint’s wrist she writes a letter on the board. So far it says “P A R I - P A S S.”_

_Something’s wrong._

_“It’s still missing something,” Jane says, “Oh, yes!”_

_She starts to measure Clint’s neck._

_“_ **_Who do you belong to_ ** _?” Phil Asks Clint._

_No._

_“You, Master.”_

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

_The measuring tape turns into a snake; Phil reaches for it but it twists out of his grasp and wraps around him, pinning his arms in place._

_Quinn strokes the snake where it rests against Phil’s throat, “Beautiful, isn’t he. Eventually you’ll realize everything you love belongs to me.”_

_“I’m going to kill you.”_

_Quinn smiles, “No. you won’t. Now, I don’t think you’ll want to see this. If you don’t mind?” This last is said to the snake, which winds around Phil’s eyes._

_“No!” Phil struggles for an eternity, and he hears Clint crying as he tells Quinn, “Yours, Master. Yours!”_

_Phil’s jealousy roars through him. Clint is_ his _._

_“Phil, you have to be logical about this,” Jane says._

_The snake moves, Phil hears the sound of gagging, and then his eyes are free as the snake slithers off of him and starts disappearing down Clint’s throat. When Clint finishes swallowing the snake he moves into his leash position, holding his palms up towards Phil, “For you, Master.”_

_“That’s your problem, Phil,” Jane says, “You’re too emotional.”_

“Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.”

Phil wakes up gasping, the nightmare fading. He doesn’t remember what it was about. 

Something about a snake?

Whatever it was has left him deeply unsettled— or rather even more unsettled than the last 30 hours have. 

He reaches out for Clint and sighs in relief as his hand entwines with Phil’s. 

~~~

“Phil!” Shelly’s voice calls out across baggage claim. Phil rushes over to her, Clint in tow, cutting the blade of his hand across his throat. 

The Forbidden word strikes it like a bow, and it wants to curl up in a ball but Master is tugging its leash so it swallows its pain as it jogs behind Master, coming to a stop as he throws his arms around the dominant who was calling his name. 

“What part of me using aliases was confusing for you?” He hisses in her ear even as he hugs her. God, it’s good to be back home. 

“Sorry! My bad. I can’t believe you found him!” Shelly releases Phil and pulls Clint in, giving him the same deep hug, “I’m so glad you’re back C—‘Jerry’,” Shell says turning her head towards Phil and giving him an exaggerated wink. 

The pet doesn’t know what to do with its hands or how it’s supposed to react and so it freezes in place and does nothing, praying it’s the right response. 

Phil chuckles, or tries to, it comes out more as a huff of amusement. Damn he’s tired. The few hours sleep he had gotten on the plane seem to have left him even more exhausted than he had been before. 

“What are you doing here?”

She punches him in the arm, and the pet bristles at the insolence of the dom striking its Master but Master only smiles softly, so it must be okay?

“Really, Phil?” Neither of them notice the way Clint jerks, his shoulders coming up as if to cover his ears. 

It hurts, oh how it hurts; the pet tries, and mostly succeeds at blocking out the rest of her words, terrified she might speak more Forbidden ones. 

“I’m going to forget you asked that because you’re my brother and I love you. Let’s get your things?

“Yeah,” Phil says and they start walking towards the carousel. Clint’s on his leash; he had offered it up to Phil before leaving his seat and Phil had been too tired to argue. Clint falls in step three paces behind Phil’s left.

“Derek and Scott?”

“At home. With a very anxious Barney and Simone. Are we not going to talk about that?” Shelly points her thumb over her shoulder at Clint.

Pet shrinks down as small as he can. Master’s friend’s tone is somewhere between disbelief and disgust. She, at least recognizes it for the worthless slut it is. 

“Not here. Just. Don’t use his name. You told them?”

“Barney was pissed you didn’t call him but I think ultimately he understands. You’re only lucky I won the coin toss or you would have been punched instead of hugged.”

“You did punch me!”

“You’re telling me you would rather be punched by Barney Garnett?”

“Point.”

“Why _didn’t_ you call him?”

“I could say it was op sec but honestly, I don’t know what to tell him. To tell any of you. Pet’s been through hell. Fuck, is probably still there. He’s been… conditioned. I’ve never seen anything this thorough. I’m—,” Phil swallows and says, “I’m scared, Shell.”

Why would Master be scared? Whoever this Barney Garnett is, he must be dangerous if Master is afraid of him.

“Pet?” Shelly asks. Phil gives her a helpless look. Shelly grabs his free hand and squeezes it, “It’ll be okay, Cheese. It’s all going to be okay.”

He wishes he could believe that.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s after 22:00 by the time they get to Phil’s apartment, which is like 04:00 to Phil’s internal clock.

Shelly’s tidied up the place, all of Phil’s printouts and maps have been folded and stacked; except the big map on the wall with color coded pins indicating locations of Quinn’s known associates, properties (or suspected properties), and any other spots vital in tracking the bastard down.

Phil wants to tear it all down. Instead he grabs a red pin and pushes it in at Florence. He has faint hope that Garrett and Grant will be able to take Quinn into custody but at least they have a new jumping off point. 

When he had left the place had looked like the night after a frat party and not Phil’s normally pristine magazine perfect apartment. Shelly has collected the dozen or so coffee mugs he had left around the living room and done the dishes he had let pile up in the kitchen sink. Dad’s afghan is folded neatly on the couch instead of bunched up in the corner. She’s also aired out the apartment and made the bed, probably with fresh sheets. She’s even vacuumed. 

Shelly hates vacuuming. 

“Misch, you didn’t have to do all this.”

“I had to do _something._ Are you hungry? I stocked up the fridge.”

“Pet? Something to eat?”

“If it pleases you, Master,” it had been allowed to eat twice on the plane _and_ Master had let it have coffee both with the main meal and the snack served later. It’s barely hungry at all. In fact it’s more tired than anything, having remained awake for the novel experience of the plane ride; sitting in a chair next to Master as if it were a person, Master feeding it from a tray all of its own, and the aforementioned coffee were all too fantastical for it to fully process. At least watching over Master’s avatar when he had logged off had felt normal. 

It’s former Master had drilled into it the importance of protecting its Master’s avatar often enough (not to mention painfully thoroughly enough) that it is a lesson it will never forget. 

Phil’s getting better at parsing Clint’s ‘if it pleases’. Sometimes it means no, sometimes it means he doesn’t have an opinion, and sometimes it even means yes. Usually, most frustrating of all, it means Clint is just saying what he thinks Phil wants to hear, “Okay. Go sit at the table, please.”

Clint hasn’t eaten nearly enough today, in Phil’s opinion. He checks the fridge and stares mindlessly for long enough that Shelly comes up beside him and squeezes his arm, “Let me.”

The pet nervously kneels next to a kitchen chair, picking the one with the best sight lines in the hopes that it is Master’s chair. It’s old Master hadn’t cared for such things but as it’s the pets duty to protect its Master and if it isn’t Master’s chair it hopes Master will take the hint.

Clint’s kneeling in his default position next to his normal seat at the table. Phil wants to read some meaning into that, but it’s probably nothing. He sighs and grabs the kneeling cushion from the linen closet, unused since Grant moved out. Phil’s not even sure why he kept it but he’s glad for it now. He should probably buy a couple more.

“Up, Pet,” Phil says and sets the cushion down for Clint before sitting in Clint’s chair. It used to be Phil’s, but when Clint had moved in Phil had let Clint have it. It puts their backs to the corner and lets Phil watch as Shelly throws together grilled cheese sandwiches for the three of them. 

Phil smiles softly as she sets Clint and and Phil’s in front of Phil and then brings them water before sitting with her own in Phil’s usual chair, glancing at the doors and windows in a way that Phil approves of. 

He really needs to talk to Fury about recruiting her. 

Maybe he should look into recruiting Garnett while he’s at it. 

“You did the thing with the parmesan.”

“I should be mad at you, you know; I have to do it every time I make them for Derek now.”

“Ah, poor baby. I know how much you hate doing things just because they make Derek happy.”

“Eat your stupid sandwich, jerkface.”

The pet shrinks into Master’s leg. It’s former Master wouldn’t have tolerated such insolence. Master is far too indulgent, so she may just be taking advantage of his good nature or it’s possible that she is dangerous enough that Master lets her get away with it. The pet will have to watch her carefully for any threat. 

Phil cuts up Clint’s sandwich and is just about to hand a piece down to Clint when he remembers himself and pops it into his own mouth. He hums in pleasure and then holds a piece down to Clint. 

“So are we ever going to talk about that?” Shelly asks, gesturing to where Clint’s delicately taking the bite between his teeth.

The pet feels a spurt of anxiety at the dom’s disapproval of it, but it’s background noise as the flavors that burst across its tongue when Master feeds it. Of all the things Master has fed it so far, this may be the best. The pet moans and leans into Master’s leg, “Thank you, Master.”

The bite Phil had just taken turns to ash in his mouth, “Quinn broke him, Shell. Broke him hard, and I’m not sure he can be fixed. He can’t even stand the sound of his own name.”

Master is being ridiculous again. The pet has always been broken and sluts don’t have names. 

“Pet has—,” Phil winces, “ _Had_ one of strongest wills I’ve ever seen. The Framework is more dangerous than we could ever imagine. We have to stop Quinn. Garrett and Grant are in Florence now, but I’m pretty sure Quinn is in the wind again. And it’s my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“They— when I got there— the things they were doing to him— Shelly, I can't describe it. What you can see isn’t even close to the worst of it,” Phil grips the back of Clint’s neck, needing that grounding touch.

“What about Radcliffe?”

“I’m not sure. There hasn’t been a sighting of him since before they took Pet. We’re not even sure if he’s still alive.”

“Has Clint—,” Shelly breaks off when she sees Clint react like he had taken a blow, “Sorry, Pet— Really, Cheese? Really? Pet?”

“It was his choice. Don’t take that from him. He’s already had so much— _everything_ taken away.”

Master’s wrong, it hasn’t had anything taken from it, Master has done nothing but give and give since the moment he appeared.

“I— okay. Fine. But you get to tell Barney.”

“I’ll call him in the morning.”

“You’ll call him tonight.”

Phil sighs, “I’ll call him tonight,” he agrees. 

“Now, as I was saying, has _Pet_ ,” she says Clint’s chosen name like it leaves an oily residue in her mouth, “Been able to tell you anything.”

The pet cringes. It has to find a way to win favor from Master’s friend before she convinces Master to get rid of it. 

“I haven’t asked.”

“Phillip!”

“I know, I know. I should have brought him in for debrief. I _should_ have focused on Quinn but, Shell, it was like something took over my hindbrain and wouldn’t let go. And I can’t find it in myself to be sorry.”

“You can’t keep beating yourself up about it. If it had been Derek—,” Shelly breaks off with a shudder, “Actually, I think I’m going to call him now, if you don’t mind.”

Phil waves her off, “I’ll catch the dishes.”

Shelly takes her phone into the bedroom and shuts the door as Phil collects the plates and glasses. Clint looks lost and so Phil says, “Pet, please get a sheet out of the linen closet and make up the couch for Shelly.”

They had agreed that Shelly would spend the night with them and that they would drop her off at the train station on their way into the office. She had offered to stay longer but with a new baby at home Phil insisted she return to New York. 

The pet is just finishing smoothing out the sheet when Master’s friend comes back into the living room.

“Just go easy on him, Barns.”

_“Just go easy on him, Barns.”_

_“This_ is _easy, little bro. He’s lucky I’m letting him walk away with a few busted bones.”_

_The dom, Clint hadn’t even bothered to get his name when he picked him up at the club last night, wheezes from where he’s crouched down next to the broken bottles that litter the alley way._

_“It’s fine. If I’da wanted his face broke I woulda done it myself.”_

_“It ain’t just about you, Clint. You think you're the first sub he’s ignored a safeword on? Or that he’ll be the last?”_

_Clint sighs, “Yeah. Okay. You’re right. Hold him up for me? Like I said, anyone breaks his face it should be me.”_

The pet closes its eyes and takes a couple deep breaths. It needs to tell Master about the glitches before he checks the logs. 

Master takes the phone from his friend and goes into the bedroom, shutting the door.

“If I find out you’re taking advantage of my brother…” Garnett trails off threateningly. 

“I won’t. I wouldn’t. You have to know how much he means to me.”

“Yeah, like a _pet_.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really Coulson? What’s it like then?”

“I am doing everything in my power—”

“Do better.”

“I— I’m trying, Barney. I promise—”

“I’m coming down there.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I’m not sure you know what constitutes a good idea, _pet_.”

“Please, give me a day. We’re going to consult with a couple of doctors in the morning to figure out what’s best for him. I’ll keep you in the loop every step of the way. Just— please, trust me? I love him. You know that I love him, right?”

Barney is silent for a couple of beats and Phil is reminded that for a long, dangerous while Barney Garnett was Barney Barton, Clint’s twin in the field and just as deadly, “24 hours, Phil. I’ll give you 24 hours and not a second more.”

“Thank you,” Phil says, his shoulders dropping in relief, “I’ll check in with you tomorrow afternoon and let you know the game plan.”

“Don’t make me regret trusting you; or _I’ll_ make _you_ regret it. Now let me talk to my brother.”

“Okay, but— be careful. Shelly told you that he’s basically stuck Down?”

“Yeah. God, that bastard.”

“You can’t mention his name, or yell at him. You especially can’t tell him he’s out of the Framework.”

“You’re worried he’s gonna pull a Cas?”

“I— Barney, I need a favor,” Phil says, making a split second decision.

Barney huffs, “Oh, this ought to be good.”

“If… if the worst happens, I need you to take me out.”

“What? What are you—”

“I’m serious. If I survive Clint… You’ll need to keep your distance. His bow would be poetic but, really, as long as you stay out of hearing range you should be safe.”

“Jesus, Phil.”

“Promise me.”

“I— fuck. I promise. But it’s not a contingency you’re going to need. We aren’t letting my brother die.”

Phil lets Barney’s words comfort him, “No. No we won’t. I’ll get him for you.”

The pet kneels in Supplication by the couch, waiting for Master’s judgement. Master’s friend picks up a backpack from the floor next to the couch, “I’m going to change for bed, Pet. Will you be okay out here by yourself?”

“The pet will behave itself, Ma’am.”

“Shelly.”

“Ma’am?”

“I want you to call me Shelly. I don’t think my brother is pushing you hard enough. I don’t think you’re broken. Just maybe banged up a bit. He’s always been too cautious with his subs. So. I’m giving you a direct order and I expect to be obeyed. You will call me Shelly,” she doesn’t make it an Order, but there is enough steel in her voice that it doesn’t matter.

The pet straightens it’s spine. ‘Brother’. It makes more sense now, the way Master and Shelly act with each other. It’s not sure how it knows, but it knows that family is special. It’s also nice to get a direct, if strange, order. Shelly is one of the names that Master uses for his sister and is far too familiar of a name for the pet to be using but her tone is firm and brooks no argument.

“Yes, Shelly.”

“Good. That’s good, Pet,” Shelly runs her fingers through it’s hair, “I want you to bring that cushion over next to the couch and wait there for Phil.”

“Ah!” It flinches at the Forbidden word and it’s reminded once again that Master can be crueler than its former Master; while it isn’t worthy to think his name, he hadn’t made his name a Forbidden word. It wonders if it’s former Master had been training it all along for its real Master, “Yes, M— yes, Shelly. Thank you, Shelly.”

Shelly looks down in concern, it hadn’t felt like her hand had caught on anything; she worried that he may have a head injury, “I want you to do one more thing for me while you wait, I want you to think about what you want for breakfast.”

“Ma’am?” It cringes, “Sorry, the stupid slut is sorry, Shelly.”

“Oh, Clint.”

It whimpers from the pain of the Forbidden word; it thinks this must be her punishment for not using her name like it had been ordered to, and it’s grateful that she is quick but not brutal with her reprimand.

Shelly’s breath catches and she kneels down next to the pet and hugs him close. It doesn’t hurt, but it does bring out the ache all over its body; and it’s familiar and comforting and it holds itself stiffly for only a moment before giving in to the hug, “Oh Pet. I’m the one that’s sorry. I’m pushing you very hard. But you’re strong, aren’t you, Pet? I know you can be strong for me.”

“If it pleases you, Shelly.”

“Okay; I tell you what,” Shelly says, letting him go from the hug and stoking its hair off its forehead, “You can use ‘Ma’am’ but only as often as you do ‘Shelly’; does that sound fair?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am! Thank you, Shelly.”

“Good boy,” she stands, “As for breakfast, maybe open ended questions are a little _too_ hard. I want you to think about it. I’ll want an answer when I get back: Pancakes or French toast.”

The pet bites its lip, careful of the split.

“I know it’s difficult, Pet, but I promise. There’s no wrong answer. Hell, if you want Froot Loops instead that's fine. You just have to tell me what you want for breakfast.”

“Yes, Shelly.”

“And Pet?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“It has to be what _you_ want; not what you think will make me happy.”

The pet feels it’s shoulder’s slump, “If it pleases you, Ma’am.”

It does as Shelly ordered and sets the cushion down next to the couch, then sits in Supplication and tries to figure out what it wants to eat tomorrow. 

It knows that this doesn’t necessarily mean that it will _get_ to eat, just as it also knows Shelly will be checking the logs and so it has to decide which one it wants and not which one will please her. 

It’s stuck wondering how it knows what Froot Loops are; it’s old Master had never had them around. Maybe it had them Before?

_“Clint, get down. You're gonna get us in trouble,” Clint standing on a counter and reaching up to grab the brightly colored box of cereal off the top of the fridge._

_“But I’m hungry now! ‘Sides, we’ll only get in trouble if we get caught.”_

Master comes out of the bedroom and holds out the phone towards the pet, “I want you to talk to Barney but if he says anything upsetting you can stop at any time.”

“Yes, Master. Hello?” The pet says tentatively.

“Oh, God. You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice, little bro.”

Little bro?

“How are you? Are you being treated right?” 

He must be a dom. Maybe one of the professionals Master mentioned, one who will be teaching Master new ways to hurt it?

“The pet is sorry, Sir. It has been disobedient but so far Master has been reserving punishment until he finds one that is appropriate.”

‘ _That’s not at all right_ ,’ Phil thinks. He needs to keep working with Clint to make sure he understands that Phil will never give him pain as punishment. 

“The fuck!”

The pet whimpers and flinches away from the venom in the man’s voice.

Phil’s hand twitches but he holds himself back from taking the phone away from Clint. 

“Shhh, shh, I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to yell. That’s just not what I meant. I want to make sure he isn’t hurting you.”

“Not as much as he should, Sir.”

The dom growls at this, rightfully upset that the pet isn’t being punished enough, “Put Phil back on the line.”

“Ah! It’s sorry, Sir! Please, don’t be mad at Master, it’s the worthless slut’s— sorry! Sorry, the stupid pet’s fault that it’s too broken to be punished properly. Once he finds a new way to hurt his pet he can punish it the way it deserves.”

Phil looks down at Clint in horror, speechless at what he’s revealed. 

“ **Put. Phil. On.** ”

The pet has never heard such menace in anyone’s voice and is torn between fear for itself and fear for its Master, even as the Forbidden word tears through it. 

“Please, Sir, please; it’s the pet’s fault.”

“Clinton Francis Barton, you will hand the phone to Phil, and you will do it now.”

The pet moans as each Forbidden word flows over it, swallows it, and it’s sobbing by the time the dom gets to ‘Barton’, “Y-yes, Sir,” it shifts into Offering, holding the phone out to Master on shaking palms.

“Barney, you have to know—”

“ **No**. Don’t say a word. Now is not the time for you to talk, it’s the time for you to listen.”

Phil starts to answer but instead shuts his mouth. 

At Phil’s silence, Barney continues, “Good. We’re going to find Quinn and when we do, we are going to teach him new meanings to the word suffering. You’re not leaving me behind again. You get a lead on him, you let me know first and where you go, I go. I’m not letting him get away with this.”

Phil swallows and finds himself nodding, “Agreed. On all counts.”

“Give me back to Clint. Oh, and Phil? If I find out you’ve harmed Clint in any way, what I do to Quinn will pale in comparison to what I do to you. He _trusts_ you.”

“Also agreed,” Phil says softly, “Pet,” he sets the phone in Clint’s still upraised palms.

The pet brings the phone up to its ear, “S-sir?”

“I love you, little bro.”

“It— it doesn’t understand, Sir.”

“I love you and nothing is ever going to change that.”

“Sir?”

“I just needed to say it. You can hang up now. Get some rest, kid. You’re going to need it.”

“Yes, Sir,” it disconnects the call and holds the phone back up to Master on its palms.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shelly says from the bathroom door; she’s wearing Phil’s Captain America shirt, the one she stole from him in high school that hangs to her knees, the red and white of shield graphic has cracked and faded against the soft blue material, and her face is furious, even with her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth.

“You heard all that?”

“Enough.”

“Pet, go wait on the bed for me— you’re not in trouble, I just need a second. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Wait,” Shelly says, “Pet, did you have a chance to think about what I asked you?”

“Yes, Shelly.”

“Wait, what? Shelly? Pet, why are you using Shelly’s name?”

Stupid! It should have known better. It should have disobeyed Sh— Master’s sister and accepted her punishment; sluts don’t get to use dominant’s names. The pet launches itself to Master’s feet and hugs his ankles, “Please, Master, your pet is sorry! It won’t do it again, it will be good.”

“Hey, now,” Phil crouches down, “Come here, Pet,” he pulls Clint into his arms and rocks them, “Shhh, I’m not angry. You’re good. I just wanted to know why.”

“I told him to.”

“What?” Phil asks, looking up at Shelly and Phil knows Clint's side of the conversation with Barney has left her just as shaken as he feels, and that Clint’s tugging at her Protective urges. 

“You’re being too soft. What Pet needs right now is structure. I gave him an order. He’s following it,” Shelly crouches down next to Clint and Phil and draws her fingers through Clint’s hair, “Because he’s a very good boy.”

“M-master?”

“She’s right, Pet, you are a good boy. Please, keep using her name.”

The pet curls into Master while trying to push its head into Shelly’s hands as relief swamps it. It’s not in trouble. It’s a good pet, both Master and Shelly say so, “Thank you, Master.”

“I can’t believe you never asked him to call you by your name, you doof!” Shelly smacks Phil up the side of the head. He would object, but she’s right.

The pet bristles when Shelly strikes Master and watches warily. She’s cut from the same cloth as Master, her kindness belying the danger underneath.

Phil can’t bring himself to order Clint to call him by his first name, as much as he loves it when Clint uses it, he had always done so sparingly, and making him use it in this context feels wrong. Phil says, “Pet, I want you to call me Coulson—”

The pet cries out and clutches itself closer to Master, “Oh, please Master, please, it can’t. It’s Forbidden.”

Phil shakes as the rage sweeps through him. He feels his fingers turn into claws and he crushes Clint to him.

His name.

 _His_ _name._

It’s selfish and some swallowed up part of him, buried beneath the madness that is pounding at his brain, is trying to tell him it isn’t about him, this is about Clint, but he can’t hear it right now. 

Clint whimpers in his arms as Phil tries to pull him even closer.

“Ph— Cheese! Cheese, you’re hurting him,” Phil doesn’t respond, it’s like he doesn’t even hear her, and so Shelly tries slapping him and, when that doesn’t work, tries slapping him again.

The pet notices Shelly attacking Master through a haze of pain and subspace and is just barely quick enough to throw itself between her and Master, shielding him with its body, ready to counter but then the strangest thing happens; she apologizes.

“Pet!” Shelly exclaims and then cups its stinging cheek, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—”

Phil grabs Shelly’s wrist in a tight enough grip to leave bruises, “ _Don’t touch him.”_

The pet hides its face in Master’s neck; he’s terrifying like this and the pet knows it needs to make itself as small as possible or risk his wrath turning on it.

Shelly bolts to her feet and would have taken a couple steps back but Phil still has a hold of her wrist. It’s been years since she’s heard his Voice and for all that the Order was soft, she feels it ring through her like a bell.

“ _Cheese_ ,” she Says with a calm she doesn’t feel; she's faced down terrorists, disarmed bombs and even went toe to toe with the President once; none of which have ever been as terrifying as her brother is at this moment. He doesn’t respond to his childhood name, and so she takes a risk, which causes Phil to squeeze her hand as Clint shudders at the pain, “ _Phil_ , _you need to let go_. You’re hurting me.”

Shelly keeps her Voice as equally soft as Phil had. She doesn’t have near the raw power as he does but she’s had a lifetime Vocal obsession and she has more practice using what she does have. And saying she has less power is like saying a tiger isn’t as powerful as an elephant; while true, unless the elephant is enraged, the tiger is the one you need to watch.

Unfortunately, Phil is one enraged elephant. 

Phil snarls and squeezes her wrist one more time, making it clear that he’s letting go because he chooses to and not because of her Order. 

The pet keeps as still as possible, not daring to move a muscle, going so far as to breath as shallowly and quietly as it can, it’s fingers loose where they’re entangled in Master’s shirt.

“Thank you, Cheese,” Shelly rubs her wrist and sits on the couch next to them, being sure to put Phil in between her and Clint, “Now, _you need to calm down_.”

She tempers her voice like chocolate, leaving it smooth and sweet, more of a Suggestion than an Order and she sees it take hold as he stops baring his teeth and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

Oh! Shelly’s Voice is magical, even not directed at the pet, and it sinks boneless lay against Master’s chest.

“Thank you,” she pitches her Voice as an Invitation, “ _Why don’t you come up onto the couch next to me_ , you can keep Pet safe between your knees. I promise, I’m not going to touch him.”

She couldn’t if she wanted to, Phil’s Order is still holding her fast; her brother’s even Stronger than she imagined and she’s grateful that he’s on the side of the angels. 

Phil curls his lip at her and she scootches into the corner of the couch, giving him even more distance, eyeing her warily he moves into the other corner, pulling Clint into his lap instead of leaving him on his knees.

“It’s okay, Philly,” she tries and her suspicion is confirmed when Clint doesn’t flinch; which is good as she isn't sure what Phil’s reaction would have been if he had, “No one is going to hurt him.”

“You hurt him,” Phil growls and Shelly holds her hands up.

“You’re right, I did. And I’m sorry. It was an accident. I promise, it won’t happen again. _He’s safe. You’re both safe_.”

‘ _Careful, Shells, don’t be the tiger, be the fox,’_ she tells herself. 

Subspace is no longer sucking at the pet, pulling it under, it’s more like a warm blanket on a cold night and the pet hums in contentment as it Floats, letting its mind go and letting the sensation wash over it.

Phil settles a little more, though there’s a little wildness around his eyes that warns her to keep her distance. 

Phil’s blood is still pounding and he keeps Clint caged in the circle of his arms as he watches the other dom warily.

After a couple minutes she edges a little closer; Phil’s nostrils flair but that’s all. It takes almost twenty minutes for Shelly to get close enough to touch Phil, petting his shoulder, and from there it’s touch and go but eventually her quiet Murmurs and calm patience reach him and he even lets her run her fingers through Clint’s hair, recognizing that she isn’t a rival, isn’t a danger. She’s family. She’s safe. 

“Better?” she asks.

“Not really.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Fine. A little.”

“It’s late. It looks like your boy might be Down for the night. Why don’t you take him to bed?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s… I’ll do that. I— thanks, Shells.”

“Of course. Though…”

“What?” Phil asks, keeping his voice quiet for Clint’s sake while letting his concern show.

“You totally owe me a new toothbrush,” she says, pointing with her chin at her’s in the middle of the floor, dropped in all the hubbub. 

She ruffles Clint’s hair and then Phil’s, “Now up, you’re on my bed.”

Phil takes Clint into the bedroom and helps him out of his suit. He can’t keep himself from running his fingers lightly over his injuries, cataloging them, each hurt and other log on the flame of his hatred for Ian Quinn. 

Master inspects his pet, his touch is gentle, never digging in to make the bruises last longer, and instead of being worried about him finding some flaw to berate it about or having its wounds aggravated to the point that they might impede its service, it feels… tended to. Comforted. It never knew subspace could feel this… sweet.

Phil has Clint slip on a soft pair of pajama pants and an old t-shirt, the pink and purple target reminds him of the shield on Shelly’s sleep shirt and of heroes and of the type of man he wants to be. The shirt and pants are far to lose and he yanks Clint into his arms and hugs him tight. 

The pet tentatively wraps its arms around Master’s waist and then bends its neck so that it can rest its head on his shoulder. 

“Go finish getting ready for bed, Pet,” Master says, brushing his lips over its forehead, his beard tickling it slightly, “The magenta toothbrush is yours.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And Pet? Use toothpaste.”

When the pet comes back out of the bathroom, it’s pleased to see Master wearing pajama bottoms that match the ones he gave it, it makes it feel marked in all the best ways. 

Phil knows he should put on a shirt but he can’t help himself; in fact he thinks he’s doing pretty well since what he wants more than anything is to strip Clint naked and lay skin to skin with him, to kiss him all over, to cover each mark on Clint’s body with one of his own. 

No, going only shirtless is an act of restraint. 

He can feel his Hunger nipping at him, urging him to action, to Claim his submissive, to Mark him so thoroughly that none can deny it and Phil is barely able to hold himself back.

Clint is eyeing the floor at the boot of the bed and so Phil points and says, “Bed, Pet,” before heading into the bathroom himself.

The pet is a little unsure as it settles on the bed, kneeling in Supplication as it waits for Master. It hasn’t earned— _can’t_ earn Master’s cock and isn’t sure why Master has ordered it to the bed instead of the floor; though with its warm carpeting instead of the cold marble it’s used to even the floor looks impossibly comfortable. It bets Master would even give it a pillow and blanket without it having done anything to earn them. 

When Phil comes out of the bathroom he takes a selfish moment to just stare at Clint. The position is unnatural (though not according to Phil’s dick, which is doing its best to rise despite all of Phil’s good intentions), and the tableaux makes Phil’s heart ache in equal measures of joy and sorrow; Clint is finally back in Phil’s bed, where he belongs, at the same time _Clint_ isn’t here at all. 

“Under the covers, Pet,” Phil says, getting into bed next to him.

“Master?” Clint asks.

Phil braces himself and replies, “What is it, Pet.”

“Do you not want to at least cum on your pet’s face? Please, Master?”

Phil’s entire body shudders at the image of Clint spread out before him, of stroking himself to completion and marking Clint in such a primitive way.

“No,” Phil says, his voice is clipped as he turns out the light but his hands are gentle as maneuvers Clint into being the little spoon, pulling Clint’s back to his chest.

Master’s body is warm and the pet pushes its ass against him, moaning as the evidence of his desire presses between it’s cheeks, “Master,” it begs, its voice thick with need, “Please, please use your pet?”

“No!” Master barks out, and stills it’s movements with a firm hand on its stomach, “Settle down.”

“Please, Master? Please mark it?” It begs, barely kept in check by Master’s order, desperately wanting to rub its body against its Master’s. 

Phil sighs, knowing he’s pushing the limits of his self control as he nuzzles the join of Clint’s shoulder and rests his teeth there.

“Oh, yes, Master, please?” Master bites down and it’s good, so good, he doesn’t break the skin, doesn’t bite so hard as to jolt it out of the low level of subspace it’s in and it can’t help itself as it rubs its ass against Master’s cock, moaning in pleasure, heedless of any retribution. Master’s hand slips down under its waistband to cup its own hardening cock, not slapping, or pinching, or even stroking, just holding it.

Phil’s desperate as he begins to rut against his submissive, marking his neck, biting his way up the side, above Phil’s collar, and sucking in a bruise for everyone to see. Everything inside him wants to slide down their sweats and press his naked dick between Clint’s thighs, to have Clint grab the lube from the nightstand to ease his way, to come between Clint’s legs and leave him a sticky mess. 

Clint’s dick is hot and firm in his hand and Phil strokes it once, and then twice, and would have likely kept going if it weren’t for Clint’s, “Ohhhh, Master!”

Phil comes to his senses, though he can’t resist giving Clint’s dick one last squeeze, torn between giving Cli t was he so clearly wants and not wanting to take advantage of him, before saying, “Stop moving, Pet.”

The pet whines softly deep in its throat, almost a groan, but it obeys.

“Good boy,” Master says, “Now, sleep.”

“Yes, Master,” it says. It fails to keep the sulk out of its voice, but even then Master’s hand on its cock stays gentle.

“And Pet? I don’t want a repeat of this morning’s performance. If you wake up before me you can shower and get dressed, but let me sleep.”

“Yes, Master.”

Phil kisses Clint’s neck one last time, “Goodnight, Pet.”

“Goodnight, Master.”


	9. Chapter 9

The slut wakes up in the morning with Master’s arms wrapped around it and it basks in the warmth for as long as possible. 

It’s in that Up place where everything is turned up to eleven, everything is just Too Much; the fabric against its skin reminds it that rewards all too often become punishments, but at least the room is still surrounded by shadows and the only sound is Master’s breathing.

It’s a little too early to start warming his cock— wait, no. It hasn’t earned— can’t earn, such gentle worship. 

The best thing to do will be to prepare itself for the day. Master says they’re going to see some experts that will hopefully be able to fix the pet. 

Maybe then it will be allowed to serve properly. 

The pain of being Up so high is nothing next to the fear and sorrow of being denied its Master’s cum and it will only get worse the longer Master goes without using it. As much as it hated it, its grateful Master had his friend use it yesterday. 

It has a couple more days before it’s in danger of breaking the most important rule and dying; though it can last much longer as long Master has it serve _someone_ every couple of days. So far Master has been kind enough to allow it that much. 

It’s shower is easy enough, though the cold water lights it’s nerves on fire. After drying off with a towel that is at once impossibly soft and also somehow made of sandpaper, it hangs up the towel and stands in the middle of the bedroom, hoping that Master will wake soon. 

It knows it shouldn’t, that it will likely anger or, somehow worse, disappoint Master but it’s started planning out ways to entice Master to use it before it Starves to death.

The pet walks over to the standing mirror set up next to the bed and examines itself. It’s eyes are bruised a violent shade of purple, but the cut on its forehead and its broken nose are healing quickly; the bruises that line its jaw have darkened to an even deeper purple and the swelling around its split lip is gone. The bite marks and bruises that litter its body are developing as well, but the thing that most draws its eyes are the new hickeys that make their way up from Master’s mark at the join of its shoulder, up to the other side of its collar and almost up to its ear, and it reaches up to press its fingers against them and shivers as with each press its senses return to normal, its slut cock stirring between its legs.

It still has its old Master’s small but heavy silver hoops in its ears and nipples, and his waist chain, not to mention the black bands around its wrists, but Master said he would get replace these markings when they got home, and this is Master’s home so it hopes it will be soon. 

It goes over to the dresser where Master had pulled out the clothing he had dressed the pet in before bed but becomes frustrated as it goes through the drawers and is unable to find anything appropriate to wear.

The pet checks Master’s closet and there it has some luck; there are four black scarves of some soft but durable fabric; they’re about six inches wide, a little narrow, but sufficient. The problem is that they’re far too long, and opaque. 

It takes some fussing, but eventually the pet manages to wrap a scarf around the chain so that it’s hanging at the correct length and width and it settles into Supplication at the foot of the bed, waiting for Master to wake. Something settles inside the pet; this may not be the service it’s slut nature craves but it’s service all the same.

The soft beeping of Phil’s alarm wakes him to an empty bed and for a second he wonders if it had all been a dream— or a nightmare, but when he sits up he sees the top of Clint’s head at the end of the bed and he sighs in relief.

This is better than yesterday. 

Sort of. 

Phil comes around the end of the bed and permits himself a frustrated sigh. This is not what he meant by ‘get dressed’; but he really only has himself to blame.

The pet wilts back as much as it can without sacrificing it’s posture, “Good morning, Master; how may your pet serve you?”

Phil’s heart breaks all over again.

“Up, please. Let me get a look at you,” he says bringing Clint up to standing with a finger under his chin. He’s actually in better shape than yesterday. The bruising is even more vivid, which means he’s healing. He seems more rested, though just as on edge. Phil’s able to get a glimpse of Clint’s pupils and can tell he’s in that just barely down state that seems to be his new default.

Master turns the pet slowly, then ghosts the back of his hand across its back and ass before saying, “Looks good. Not too warm, no sign of infection.”

His fingers linger over his own marks on the pet’s neck above and below his collar. Master can’t be too displeased, he’s been gentle and aside from that first angry sigh the only sound he’s made is a low hum of approval. The pet leans into Master’s touch.

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“If it pleases you, Master, may your pet have the gift of your cum?” It tries to make its voice as small as possible while bracing for Master’s outrage that it would dare beg without permission. It was right to be prepared as Master’s fingers twitch against its neck.

Phil blames his sleep-addled brain on the thoughts that come to him at Clint’s plea, the image of pushing Clint back to his knees, of Clint’s mouth on his dick, of coming down his throat, or across his face. He shakes off the thought with a snarl, disgusted with himself, and says in a gruffer tone than he means to, “No.”

The pet shakes, and yet can’t seem to stop itself from begging again, “Please, Master. Please mark your pet?”

“I just did this last night,” he says, pressing the bruises on its neck.

Clint leans into Phil’s touch and Phil’s eyes flutter shut as Clint whimpers, “Please, Master?”

Phil knows better, knows he should get Clint dressed and get ready himself, but part of him doesn’t care; that darker part that wants everything Clint has been offering from the moment Phil found him. He tilts Clint’s chin, giving himself better access to the layered hickeys at the join of his neck and scrapes his teeth there once. 

And then again.

He’s in control. 

He may want it but it’s for Clint and he can restrain himself from doing more than adding a new mark next to the beautiful bruises already there. 

He keeps himself steady as a rock, not pulling Clint’s body flush against his own, not digging his fingers into the smooth expands of his lower back, or throwing Clint to the bed and wrapping his hand around Clint’s dick, stroking him to completion, all the while Phil worrying at his neck and— he has to stop. 

He refuses to let himself pant, much as he wants to; instead he draws in a slow and steady breath before stepping away. 

He’ll spend the rest of the day with the clean scent of Clint’s skin in his nose and the warmth of it against his lips, and he intends to cherish every second of it. 

“Let’s get you dressed,” he says briskly, refusing to show how close he is to breaking, “And then you can go see if Shelly is awake while I get ready.”

The pet blinks back the wetness that springs to its eyes at Master’s cold tone; he had marked it again, true, but it had been a perfunctory thing, a task on a checklist forgotten as soon as it was accomplished reenforcing the message that Master will take care of his pet, but that doesn’t mean he _cares_.

~~~

Shelly is in the bathroom when the pet comes out to the living room, forcing itself not to mess with the turtleneck where it covers its collar and Master’s marks. The shirt is a little loose, as are the cargo pants; but the combat boots fit perfectly. Master’s fingers had lingered over the boot’s knife sheath but in the end left it empty. 

It hopes Master is waiting until they reach the target to arm it and that it won’t have to kill with its bare hands. At least when it kills from a distance it’s victims don’t have to suffer. There are worse things than getting reset with a bullet. 

It kneels in Supplication on the cushion that’s still on the floor by the couch, but doesn’t have long to wait before Master and Shelly come into the living room at the same time. 

“Alright, Pet,” Shelly says with far too much cheer, “Which is it, Pancakes or French toast.”

The pet catches its breath; it had forgotten the choice she had given him last night. 

It’s a difficult decision and it knows it’s supposed to be what it wants, Shelly was explicit, but it wants what will make Master happy. It risks peeking over at Master and takes a guess, “Pancakes? If it pleases you, Ma’am?”

Phil is floored and Shelly looks smug, “Good boy, thank you.”

“Seriously, how do you do that?”

“You need to stop being so afraid of yourself, it’s okay to be a little demanding. Honestly, from what I’ve seen, he needs it.”

“I don’t know if that’s—”

“I know that’s not easy for you, but you know I’m right. I’m always right.”

Phil grumbles a bit but, while she’s _not_ always right, he thinks she might be this time. 

~~~

This was a mistake. He should have made Fury and the doctors come to them. 

Clint had been docile as Phil dressed him this morning and Phil had tried to prepare him for what’s coming, telling him that they were going to the Trisk and that there would probably be some tests but it was nothing for him to worry about. 

Unfortunately he hadn’t counted on just how much attention they would draw. 

It doesn’t help that Clint had insisted on the leash and walking behind him. 

It’s not just the stares, Phil could live with those. It’s the quiet and not so quiet whispers as they walk through the hallways.

“Holy shit, Hawkeye’s back.”

Clint flinches, but doesn’t lose pace behind Phil.

“My God, look at him.”

“Did you ever think you’d see the day? I’m not sure what’s more shocking, that Hawkeye’s a switch or that he’s wearing _Coulson’s_ collar.”

The pet whimpers, both at the Forbidden words and at knowing the sub is right, it doesn’t deserve Master’s collar. Something else sparks its memory.

_“Hey, Coulson, does it bother you?”_

_“Does what bother me?”_

_“That I let everyone believe that I’m a dom? That they think you’re the one that kneels?”_

_“Not in the slightest. In fact, if that’s something you wanted—”_

_“What! No!” Clint chokes out. It’s one thing for Phil to talk so kinky in bed, it’s something else entirely when they're at the office._

It shakes it off the glitch like it does the pain of the Forbidden words.

“I don’t know, now that I think about it, I’ve never heard him use his Voice. You think he’s actually a sub?”

“Naw, aren’t they like Hill and Sitwell?”

“I always thought he might be Mute like Coulson.”

“Hey, yeah, has anyone ever heard Barton use his Voice?”

“No way any self respecting dominant let’s themselves get lead around like that. Especially not by Coulson.”

“ _That’s enough_! _Get back to work,_ ” a Voice rings out and Sitwell glares down the gossiping agents. As they dispersed he comes up to Phil and shakes his hand then pulls him into to a back slapping hug, “Suck the devil’s taint, you look like the shit that shit shits.”

“Thanks, Jazz,” Phil says wryly, but actually comforted by Jasper's concern, as well as his help in clearing the hallway, “I’ve missed you, too. Pet, do you remember Agent Sitwell?”

Clint shakes his head, ‘no’, “Your pet is sorry, Master.”

“What the ever gangbanging fuck?” Jasper looks at Phil with concerned eyes and Phil returns it with a helpless expression. 

“Don’t worry about it, Bart—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Phil interrupts him with a Whisper and Jasper looks shocked. He’s heard Phil use his Voice maybe twice in all the years he’s known him, “Don’t use his names or callsign, or my name.”

“Seriously, what the actual cocksucking donkey fuck?”

“I’ll explain later. If you could clear a path to Fury’s office, I’d be grateful.”

“Okay, but you owe me God damned beer. And one goat banger of a conversation.”

“Maybe something a little stronger.”

“I— yeah,” Jasper says, looking at Clint, “Maybe something a little stronger.”

~~~

“Pet, I want you to go with the doctors.”

“Please, Master!” The pet wails, clinging to Master’s legs, “Please don’t make your pet go!”

Doctors mean needles and scalpels and broken bones. At best it means being strapped to the Chair and a speculum holding its ass open for inspection, at worst amputation.

“Please, Master; tell it what it’s done wrong?”

Except it knows. _It knows_. It hasn’t been a good pet and it’s earned this punishment a dozen times over, and yet still it fights, willful and disobedient and _worthless._

“Sweetheart,” Phil crouches down and holds Clint close, “This is for your own good. I need you to be brave for me.”

Clint sobs and burrows in closer and Phil looks up helplessly at Dr. Samson and Dr. Blake.

“It will be okay, Agent Barton,” Dr. Blake says, touching Clint’s shoulder. He flinches away from her, fingers scrabbling at Phil’s arms.

“Hmm,” Dr. Samson asks, “I wouldn’t normally suggest it but a mild sedative might be in order.”

“Oh, please! Please, Master, please let your worth— your pet stay with you.”

“Under the circumstances, I recommended talking him Down,” Dr. Blake says.

“Are you sure?”

 _“_ Please, Master, please; it will be good.”

“Yes,” Dr Blake says. 

“ _Pet,_ I need you to _calm down_ ,” Clint slips smoothly and quietly into subspace, “ _You’re going to follow Dr. Samson and Dr. Blake and do everything they say. Do you understand?”_

Clint shivers and moans but releases his grip and slurs, “Yes, Master.”

“That should last about an hour,” Phil says, “Will that be enough time?”

“We’ll make it work,” Dr. Samson says, “Don’t worry, Phil. We’ll take good care of him.”

~~~

For the first few days, other than his doctor appointments, Phil keeps Clint by his side. He would have continued to do so if Dr. Samson hadn’t strongly recommended giving Clint time to himself. 

The first time is the hardest; Phil doesn’t get any work done, picking up the phone a dozen times to check in on Clint, nearly leaving to go home twice. 

He’s so distracted that he almost sends Castle on the Germany job instead of the one in Columbia and that would have been an international nightmare. 

At 16:00 Fury stops by his office and tells him to go home, which he does gratefully. 

He’s less grateful to find Clint kneeling by the door, naked except his collar and leash; it reminds him far too much of how he had found Cas— Jesus, that was less than a week ago.

Phil’s own therapist has encouraged Phil to forgive himself for how that encounter had gone; Phil strongly doubts that will ever be possible. 

~~~

Phil comes out of the bathroom, drying off his newly clean shaven chin, “What do you think? Better, right?”

It glances up at Master’s face, and suddenly glitch after glitch pours through its mind.

_Restraint’s surprisingly warm hazel eyes meet Clint’s baby blues with an intense look from across the Odessan bar before taking a drink from his tumbler of golden liquor._

_Clint sucks the last bit of mascarpone off his thumb in a while he maintains eye contact with Restr— Coulson._

_The room has cleared and Coulson is still packing up his materials when Clint stops in front of him, meets his eyes, and deliberately drops his pencil._

_He sets Coulson’s coffee down in front of him and smiles as Coulson inhales the aroma; he takes a sip and looks up, “Good. Thank you, Clint.”_

_“Well, I have found that I’m very reward motivated,” he whispers, watching Coulson’s mouth as Clint tugs on his tie._

_Clint lets Phil slip out of his mouth and he kisses the tip and then the shaft of his dick, whispering, “Phil, Phil, Phil,” with each kiss, continuing to say his name as he looks up into Phil’s eyes and sucks him back down into his throat._

_The ropes press against his skin like a benediction and Phil looks into his eyes, asking a silent question. Clint gives him a dreamy smile and nods; and Phil begins slowly drawing him up off the floor._

_“Only if you promise me, and I mean really promise me you'll safeword if you need to. And not just if the pain gets to be too much. You start to go somewhere bad in your head, I want you to let me know and we’ll deal with it together.”_

_“Do you want something to do with your hands, my own?”_

_Clint can’t do anything but stare at Phil’s mouth and he bites his lip, wanting Phil’s kiss more than anything._

_“_ Eyes on me _,” Phil Orders, and then goes to his knees._

“Pet? Sweetheart? _Clint, I need you to say something_ ,” Clint is huddled, shaking and Phil can’t get a response out of him. He steps away only long enough to grab his phone and a blanket. He wraps Clint up and calls Dr. Samson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start to pick up from here on out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m super high and feeling no pain for the first time in a long time and want to share the love so here’s a bonus chapter.
> 
> Wheeeeeeee!

“I think you’re right about the mole,” Garrett says, leaning his hip against Phil’s desk, “We combed the Italian countryside for a week and every time we got close the bastard disappeared like a puff of smoke. Your ‘Clairvoyant’ seems to know where we’re going to be before we do. Do you think it could be Hand?”

“I hate to suspect her; but she and Gyrich are at the top of my list,” Phil sighs and scrubs his hand over his newly shaven face, “Fury needs to see me and I want to go over this latest intel with him. I— do you mind keeping an eye on Pet for me?”

As much as he wants to follow Dr. Samson’s advice; he gets more work done when he brings Clint with him to the office. He’s agreed to leave Clint at home on Mondays and Wednesdays and he’ll work from home on Fridays when he can. 

Phil doesn’t like leaving Clint alone in his office but he knows he can trust Garrett; Grant isn’t much one to praise anyone but Garrett has earned his loyalty and the two of them are the only reason SHIELD has as much intel on Radcliffe and Quinn as it is. Besides Garrett and Grant, the only other people Phil trusts right now are Fury, Maria, and Jasper; and he's sure the Clairvoyant has found a way to tap into all of their communications. 

Phil has been insisting on face to face meetings and even then only after a bug sweep. Maria can call him paranoid all she wants; and she has, ever since the Framework switched from a single Assignment to a Task Force project. Phil isn’t taking any more chances on this. 

“Of course,” Garrett says, touching his arm, “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Pet, you remember John?”

“He’s your friend, Master.”

“Yes, he is. I want you to do as he says while I’m gone. It should only be an hour, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Clint frowns and bites his lip, but nods, almost whispering, “Yes, Master.”

“Good boy,” Phil says and kisses the top of his head.

As soon as Master’s out of the room, his friend sits in Master’s chair and begins unbuckling his pants, “Alright. Get over here. You heard Phil, you only have an hour.”

The pet flinches and starts to get up, but Master’s friend says, “I didn’t say you could stand, slut.”

“The pet—”

“You know better,” the dom snaps.

“This worthless slut is sorry, Sir.”

“Good. Now, get to sucking.”

~~~

Dr. Samson hasn’t been wrong so far, and honestly, Phil thinks he needs this as much as Clint does. 

Phil strokes his fingers through Clint’s hair, “We can stop at any time, Pet.”

“Yes, Master,” of course Master could take this away at any time but it hopes beyond hope that he won’t.

Phil starts by having Clint sit on the edge of the bed. He gasps when Phil kneels before him and then moans, “Oh, Master,” as Phil starts to loop the rope around his leg.

Phil takes his time, doing it right. He’s more nervous than he thinks he’s ever been; even more nervous than the first time he ever tied anyone up, all clumsy fingers and 16 year old anticipation.

When he finishes with Clint’s legs he moves on to his arms, and then starts working on the harness. When he’s finished Clint has loop chains up his legs and arms and a diamond patterned harness with Celtic inspired knotwork; Phil’s left Clint his full range of motion, though Clint hasn’t moved on his own, only moving as directed, holding himself in whatever position Phil places him. 

“You look beautiful, Pet. Would you like to see?”

“Oh, yes, Master,” the pet answers dreamily. Master helps it to its feet and lets it lean against him as they face the mirror. The pet gasps and it’s hands hover over the knots, “May it touch, Master?”

“Go ahead and touch anything you want, sweetheart.”

The pet run’s it’s fingers up and down its arms and then slowly over the jewel toned purple ropes that criss cross its chest. The pet pauses, its fingers hovering over it over its nipples. They feel strange without their rings but then it’s also strange not wearing its waist chain, which is nothing compared to the way Master dresses it all the time.

Master presses up behind it and says, “Go ahead, Pet.”

Clint lets his fingers play over his nipples, first lightly and then increasing the pressure until he’s pulling and twisting them. Phil bites down on the bruise at the join of Clint’s neck— the only mark on his body besides the tattoos and Clint moans, “How does that feel, Pet?”

“Sooooo gooood, Master.” 

“Good. Keep playing with your nipples for me.”

“Yes, Master.”

Phil grasps the ropes at Clint’s hips and pulls him tighter against Phil’s front, letting him feel Phil’s hard dick through his slacks and his soft white tank top against his scarred back. Clint moans again.

“Trace the ropes; feel how I’ve bound you. _You’re_ _mine_ ,” Phil’s Voice slips out of him without permission and he tries to rein himself in, but it’s so hard with Clint looking the way he does. Phil hadn’t counted on how much this scene would affect him. 

“Yours, Master,” Clint sighs.

“Would you like to come for me, tonight?” Phil asks.

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil tries to push his frustration down, but he can tell he’s failed by the way Clint stills. He kisses Clint behind his ear and then bites it gently before telling him in a gravelly whisper, “What do you want?”

“M..Master, _please_ ; your pet wishes only to be allowed to serve you.”

“ _What do you_ **_want_** , _Pet?”_ Master Demands and it can’t resist.

The pet falls the rest of the way Down and finds its soul bared, “Oh! To cum, Master; please let your pet cum for you.”

“So good for me, baby; of course I will,” Master says, and there’s something that sounds like pride in his voice, “I will always take care of you, Pet. Now, keep playing with your nipples.”

Master’s hand follows the ropes to its cock and he takes it in hand, his strokes knowing and firm; his other hand tight in the ropes at it’s hip and his breath hot against its neck. 

Clint moans softly and starts rubbing his nipples again, and Phil feels a surge of lust as Clint bites his lip and starts thrusting into his hand, “That’s it, sweetheart; look at how pretty you are all wrapped up for me. So beautiful, so precious. You mean everything to me Pet; everything.”

“Oh, _Master!”_ Clint cries out as Phil bites his neck, coming into Phil’s fist. He’s in a daze, far enough down that his eyes have lost focus and he’s almost boneless in Phil’s arms.

Phil lays him back in bed with a Quiet, “ _Stay.”_

Clint’s humming a pleasantly tuneless melody when Phil returns with a warm damp cloth and cleans him up before starting in on the ropes, undoing the knots slowly.

Clint hums a quiet, “Feels good,” no ‘Master’, no fear, and for just a second, things are like they were.

Phil has to blink back bittersweet tears as he tucks Clint into bed, and at his quietly slurred, “Master?” Phil shushes him and says, “Sleep.”

For the first time in forever he doesn’t get any argument, Clint just curls up against him and drifts off.

As Phil slowly follows him, he feels something suspiciously like hope.

~~~

The sound of Master’s computer being shut down for the day wakes the pet from where it’s been dozing quietly, sprawled out over the truly decadent pile of kneeling cushions next to Phil’s chair at the kitchen table. 

Phil smiles as Clint sits up and stretches his arms over his head, his back one long lean line. Clint has built back all of the muscle he had lost, and while Phil would appreciate it purely from a recovery point of view, he’s self aware enough to acknowledge his aesthetic appreciation as well. 

Usually when Master works from home he likes to unwind in front of the TV with the pet tending to him, but the pet catches his expression out of the corner of it’s eye. 

“Would you like to play a game, Master,” it says, falling to his hands and knees and curving its back, leaving its ass and head high before bringing its ass down to its heels and resting its head on Master’s knee.

“Hmmm, are you up for One Million Kisses?” Phil asks, and Clint shivers, his eyes going dark.

“Oh, yes, please, Master?”

“Go wash up, then lay face up on the bed, I’ll start here,” Phil says, brushing his thumb across the bottom of Clint’s lip. Clint tries to follow it with his tongue, but Phil is waiting for him and holds him back with a tight grip in his hair, “Uh-uh. If we start now we won’t make it to the bedroom, and I plan on taking my time.”

“If it pleases you, Master,” Clint says with a pout.

Phil tugs up on Clint’s hair and lets go as he stands, but smacks Clint’s ass once as both incentive and warning. Clint’s already pushing down Phil’s University of Chicago sweatpants as he heads to the bedroom, the only thing he’s wearing, a sort of compromise between what they both want. Phil wants Clint to get more comfortable dressing himself, so far enticing him with Phil’s clothes has had the best track record.

“Hamper!” Phil calls out.

He gets a nearly disrespectful, “Of course, Master,” that makes him smile as his heart fills with warmth. He never thought he would look forward to the day when Clint leaves his clothes strewn across the floor. He thinks maybe someday they’ll get there. 

Phil hears the shower turn on and packs away his laptop in his briefcase, locking it with the ten digit code only he knows and then getting up to prepare a light snack for when they’re done. He cuts up some strawberries into a bowl and adds some grapes, something light and sweet to complement what he has planned. 

He binds Clint to the bed, nothing fancy, softly lined cuffs cover Quinn’s tattoos completely at Clint’s wrists; they’re linked together and attached to the head board by a long enough chain that Phil will be able to flip Clint into his stomach, but short enough that Clint will have something to pull against. 

As promised, he starts with Clint’s mouth. Long, drifting kisses as he strokes up and down Clint’s arms, runs his fingers around his collar and the. Down to his check to gently rub his nipples, swallowing Clint’s sighs. 

He takes hours pulls Clint apart, covering him head to toe in kisses, most soft brushes of his lips, but every now and then a bite or a sucking bruise, until Clint’s writhing and begging, “Oh, please, Master; please?”

“Not yet, Pet,” Phil says, coming back to his lips, brushing Clint’s hair off his damp forehead, “You can hold out for me until I finish you’re back, can’t you?”

“If it pleases you,” Clint says with more than a touch of snark and Phil’s heart flutters.

Master rewards him with a deep, possessive kiss, his hand wrapping around the pet’s dripping cock, warm and sure around it’s silken hardness, and it settles some of its trembling.

He turns it over so that it’s face down on the bed, giving it one of his impossibly soft pillows to rest its cheek on and Master kisses the back of its neck. 

Clint moans and thrusts his hips into the bed before freezing and apologizing, “Sorry, Master!”

Phil storms his hands down Clint’s sides, “You can move as much as you want, sweetheart.”

“Oh, thank you, Master,” it says and deliberately rubs its cock into Master’s smooth luxurious sheet, part of it still feeling a thrill of fear as it its slut juice soaks in, even though Master had said countless times that it’s okay to get his sheets dirty. 

“Just don’t come without permission,” Phil reminds him. 

“Yes, Master,” Clint says, and Phil smiles at the silent ‘duh’ in his tone. He’s recovering faster than Phil thought possible in those early dark days. 

Master kisses his way down the pet’s spine, and then across its shoulders, continuing on until he’s covered the pet’s back and the pet alternately pushes into the kisses and pulls away when it’s too much, all part of Masters strange and wonderful game. 

Phil kisses down Clint’s back and continues on to his ass, brushing one finger between Clint’s cheeks and rubbing and the furl of muscle there, getting louder and louder as he moans until he’s begging in the drugged slur of someone deep in subspace, “Please, Master, please may your slut come?”

Phil’s doesn’t let himself frown at the slip up, and is pleased that Clint is far enough down that he doesn’t catch it, that he’s so far gone that he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. He stops playing with Clint’s asshole and uses just the barest hint of his voice, “ _Not yet, Pet.”_

The pet whines but Master’s Voice is just what it needed to be pulled back from the brink, “Yes, Master; thank you, Master.”

The pet is mindless with pleasure as Master continues down its legs and then back up again until it’s shocked out of subspace. Master has parted its ass and pressed his lips directly to its hole, something he’s never done before, “Master!!”

Instead of stopping he licks it, warm and wet and perfect in a way that has it fisting his hands and shaking as it fights the demands of its body to cum, grateful for the lingering effects of Master’s Order.

Master is relentless, kissing and sucking, and once the pet thinks it’s adjusted to the onslaught against its senses his tongue breaches its hole, “Master!”

“Cum, for me pet, cum for me,” he says before penetrating it with his tongue again.

“Fuuuuuuuuck, Master!” Clint wails as he comes, bucking under Phil’s mouth and hands and as fantastic as kissing the rest of him had been it was. I thing like the pure joy of this.

Phil keeps going even after Clint collapses back into the mattress, though it’s wide, soothing laps of his tongue now, he slowly tappers off and then reaches up to undo the cuffs from the headboard but not each other. 

Master sits up against the headboard and pulls the pet until it’s head is resting in Master’s lap, Master atroking it’s forehead throat, then gently scratching g behind its ear. 

It can feel the heat of Master’s cock through his pants and it asks, “May your pet use it’s mouth to please you, Master?”

“Not tonight, Pet,” Phil says, content to let his own hard on pass, “I want you to eat some of this fruit. Can you do that for me?”

“Oh, _yes_ , Master,” it says, forgetting to object. Master places a strawberry against its lips and it takes it delicately. It’s delicious and as soon as it finishes swallowing it opens its mouth for the next bite. This time it’s a grape, tart next to the strawberry and it hums in delight as it swallows. 

Halfway through the bowl, Phil pulls Clint up to sit next to him and encourages him to take a price of fruit and feed it to Phil, followed by taking one for himself; Clint blushes bright red, but does as Phil asks, careful as he lightly touches his teeth to the strawberry, waiting for Phil to change his mind. Phil waits patiently, letting Clint take all the time he needs. 

Phil has Clint drink some water and drinks some himself. Once the fruit is gone he arranges Clint under the covers and turns out the nightstand light, the room fills with darkness, moonlight dappling in from the window like shadows. 

He pulls Clint’s back to his front, holding him in his arms as they drift off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

“I really appreciate this, John.”

“Of course, Phil, I— Sorry,” Garrett holds up his hands as Clint shudders, “Phillip. That’s taking some getting used to.”

“Just,” Phil pauses and looks down at Clint, he’s in jeans, but otherwise naked. Getting him to accept wearing anything is a daily struggle; Phil knows he could make Clint wear whatever Phil wanted, but the point is to get Clint to not just pick out his own clothing but to pick out the clothing he wants to wear. As it is, with Phil in his suit he feels the differences in their attire acutely and he hates that dark part of him that’s purring in satisfaction, “Be careful with him? The doctors say his recovery is going well. I’m afraid my leaving for so long will be a setback but I can’t risk taking him with me and the contact won’t meet with anyone else.”

They’re sitting at the kitchen table, Master’s friend had joined them for breakfast and the pet was feeling inordinately proud. Master is letting it learn to cook and taught it to make quiche Lorraine. It’s kneeling in place beside Master as he feeds it bite after delicious bite, interspersing the quiche with fresh croissant with butter and raspberry jam and tart, sweet grapes that burst with flavor across its tongue. It has its very own cup of juice _and_ one of coffee that Master lets it drink from.

It hadn’t been paying much attention to Master and his friend’s conversation, more intent on the morsels Master places at its lips, but at this it wraps its hand around Master’s ankle and leans into him now.

“What is it, Pet?” Phil asks, cleaning his fingers so that he can run them through Clint’s hair. When Clint holds on tighter without saying anything, Phil squeezes the back of his neck and says in a firm, quiet voice, “Pet.”

“How… how long, Master?”

“I’ll be gone a week. John will stay with you for the first half, and Jasper the second.”

The pet shivers and blinks back it’s tears. Mr. Jasper isn’t so bad, he mostly ignores the pet, but Mr. John is cruel and reminds it too much of its time with Master Q— Master Qu— it’s former Master. 

“Shhh, it will be okay, Pet. If you’re good for John and Jasper, then I'll take you out to a club when I get back; would you like that?”

The pet gasps quietly and flicks its eyes up to glance at Master’s face before returning them to the floor; Master is serious and it vows to be on its best behavior, “Yes, Master.”

~~~

Garrett steps into the hallway with him, “This is it Phil. I know you’re gonna get that bastard Quinn this time. I just feel it.”

The pet sneaks up to the door, being sure not to make a sound or let a shadow fall across the thin strip still open. 

Phil grips Garrett’s shoulder, “Thank you for this, John. Take good care of him for me while I’m gone.”

“Always, Phil. You know I’ve got your back.”

~~~

“Do you remember everything your Master’s said about his trip?” Mr. John asks, the pet’s mouth around his cock.

It pulls up and licks the tip before answering, “Yes, Sir, of course.”

“Watch that mouth, slut.”

“Sorry, Sir,” the pet says with its mouth full, hoping it will cover for its insincerity.

“Suck harder. Earn that cum, boy.”

The pet obeys, while also massaging his shaft with its tongue and Mr. John Moans, “ _Good slut_ ,” and the pet shivers as a line of pleasure traces up its spine and into its mind pulling it Down.

Where before the hand that had been half heartedly stroking the lower half of John’s cock it now squeezes and twists as the pet’s Submission swallows it and it embraces its slut nature. 

“Fuck, that’s a good little cocksucker,” Mr. John swears, “You finish here and let me confirm you’ve remembered everything correctly and I may even let you cum before it’s Jasper’s turn.

“Thank you, Sir,” the pet says with feeling.

It’s thorough in its report, careful to not leave anything out. Everyone keeps saying that isn’t in the Framework anymore, and while it’s not sure what sort of game or test it is; it’s still sure that Master will check the logs and will know if he missed anything. 

“And you’re sure that’s everything, slut?”

“Yes, Sir, yes! It promises. Please may it have the gift of your cum?”

It no longer _needs_ it, not like it did in the early days when Master was still withholding his cum. Master swears that it wasn’t a punishment and that the pet wasn’t unworthy, but that for some reason it hadn’t been safe. 

It remembers the first time Master let it use its mouth on his cock, better in every way to servicing his friend. It almost shakes off the glitch when it reminds itself that it’s not a glitch, it’s a memory. 

The doctors, much nicer than any doctors the pet has ever known, say that the memories are a sign of progress, and they both encourage it to explore them; Dr. Samson asked the pet to write them down when it can, and they often review them in therapy. 

~~~

The pet likes Mr. Jasper better than Mr. John. Mr. Jasper has never hurt the pet, or used it in any way, come to this of it. 

Mr. Jasper will occasionally pet its head, always awkwardly, like he isn’t really sure what to do with his hands. 

The pet thinks it might be because he prefers the touch of other dom’s.

Mr. Jasper is in the kitchen, putting away the groceries he brought while Mr. John says goodbye to the pet.

“Remember what I told you, Pet?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Mr. John says and ruffles the pet’s hair, “You be as good for Sitwell as you were for me, and you’ll earn that reward.”

~~~

That night after dinner Mr. Jasper is sitting on the couch with the pet on one of the ridiculously fluffy cushions Master had made it pick out on one of their many shopping trips. 

The show ends and Mr. Jasper says with a yawn, “Time for bed, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Sir,” it says and starts to slide it’s hand up Mr. Jasper’s leg, it’s wrist caught in a vise like grip before it can get to his cock. 

“Tits on a tiger, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Mr. John said to service you before bed.”

“Fucking Garrett. I’m sorry pet. He’s playing a joke on us. A bad one.”

“But Mr. John said Master wants me to be sure to swallow cum every night, to get me used to all the cum I will have to swallow at the club. I’m going to be so good, I promise.”

“You— What!? Fucking— I— did he touch you while he was here?”

“Of course, Sir. Mr. John has me take care of him all the time. Has… has the pet not been doing it right?”

Mr. Jaspers wrist tightens around the pet’s wrist hard enough that it will leave unseen bruises under its tattoos, and it whimpers. 

“Shitballs,” Mr. Jasper says, “Sorry, pet, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Think carefully, is there anything else Garrett told you?”

“Oh, yes, he has a message I’m supposed to give you. I’m not supposed to give it until after,” the pet makes an abortive attempt to run his fingers up Mr. Jasper’s bright, “Oh, please, Sir, please Mr. Jasper, let it suck your cock? It remembers all the details about Master’s mission, Mr. John said so. Do you want the pet to go over them with you, too, Sir?”

Mr. Jasper shudders, “Christ fuck a duck, Phil’s going to kill me. No. No, what’s the message pet?”

“It’s not supposed to say until your cum is on its tongue.”

“Yeah, fuck that noise, _what is the message, Clint?”_

The pet shrinks back; as the Order overwhelms the fear of the forbidden words it cries out, “Hail Hydra, Sir! Hail Hydra.”

“Cocksucking hell! Stay!” Mr. Jasper tells him, snapping and pointing at the floor as he stalks away and pulls out his phone.

“Thank God!,” he says as the line picks up, “Phil, Clint’s the mole.”

“What?!” Phil’s whisper is harsh. He was going to ignore the call, this is a time sensitive mission, but it’s Jasper, which meant Clint, but of all the worst case scenarios running through his head this is something that would never have crossed his mind.

“Well, that goat fucker Garrett, but he’s been pumping your boy for information for weeks.”

“Jesus. Fuck. I’m coming home, I’ll be there as soon as possible. Call Dr. Samson and Fury, start tracking Garrett’s movements.”

Phil looks at his watch as he works his way out of the building. Shift change will be in less than a minute, which is when he was set to breach the office. No telling what was waiting for him now. 

He’s barely to the service elevator shaft when his world is rocked as the office behind him explodes. 

~~~

“And there’s no sign of him?” Phil asks.

The whole Osaka op had been a trap, Phil had barely made it out alive, having to dodge assassins as he made his way to the airport.

Jasper’s call had given him just enough warning that he got away with just a few minor bruises, and he doesn’t have time to stop and get checked out. He wouldn’t have answered at all if it had been anyone else, but his fear for Clint’s safety had overridden any thought of op sec.

His overprotective instincts had saved his life. 

“None. Garrett covered his tracks and he knows exactly how to hide from us. Motherfucker’s the reason it’s been so hard to nail down Quinn. We need to clean house, interview everyone Garrett’s talked to, trace his movements— Christ’s holy dildo, do you think Ward’s in on it?”

“No!” Phil says automatically, then actually thinks it through, “Probably. I’ll take his statement.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea; you know you're too close to this.”

“Jazz, and I mean this with all sincerity, you can go fuck yourself.”

Jasper sighs, “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll have him waiting for you when you touch down.”

“Thank you. How is he doing?”

“Pet’s fine,” Jasper says, “He’s worried you’re going to be angry with him.”

“Put him on for me?”

“Master?” Clint asks cautiously.

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so, so sorry. I’m going to make this up to you, I promise.”

“Master?” This time with confusion.

“I love you, Pet. I’ll be home soon.”

“You… You aren’t mad, Master? Mr. John said you would be mad if I told anyone you had to have him keep your Pet in line.”

Had Phil tonight he was angry before? It’s nothing to the rage he feels at Clint’s words, some small portion of it must make it over the phone because he can hear Clint whimper. 

“Pet,” Master warns.

The pet closes its eyes and takes a breath and before Master can correct it, recites, “Just because you are mad at something your pet says doesn’t mean you’re mad at it.”

“Good boy,” Master praises it and it feels warmth chase away the last of the darkness. 

“Thank you, Master.”

“Give the phone back to Jazz, please.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Phil?”

Phil sighs, “God, this is such a fucking mess.”

“Bogata was a fucking mess. This is God damned nuclear cluster fuck.”

“Take care of him until I get home, Jazz?”

“Like he was my baby sister,” Jasper promises.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tabby really does talk like this; at least in NEXT Wave. No, I’m not kidding. She’s ridiculous and I love her. 
> 
> From NEXT Wave:
> 
> Tabby ‘Boom Boom’ Smith as she ‘splodes bad guys: I’m sorry, broccoli murder-dudes, you just grow up to be, like, too harsh, you know?
> 
> Elsa Bloodstone: “I swear to God, nowhere on EARTH do they talk like you, Tabby.”

“Zomg, Clint!” A bubbly blond with a surfer tan bounds over to the couch Phil commandeered the moment they arrived, “We haven’t seen you in, like, forever!”

Coming up behind the blond is a statuesque black woman in white jeans and a sleeveless white silk tunic that shimmers in the low club lights like a star. Her black knee high boots have been polished to a mirror shine and she has the self contained body language of a dom used to being in command, but not Needing to be in Command. The dom is holding onto the long silver chain leash attached to her submissive’s hot pink collar, the color of which matches the sub’s pvc bustier, mini skirt, and shrug. 

The blonde barely comes up to her dom’s shoulder, even with the extra inches from her clear platform stilettos; neither of them are subtle— but it works. 

Clint cringes at the sound of his name and shrinks back into Phil’s legs from where he is kneeling sideways at Phil’s feet. Phil has been trying to coax Clint up onto the couch for the last ten minutes and has to hide his frustrated anger at the interruption. 

Pet flinches back at the sound of the Forbidden word— no. Not Forbidden. It’s its name. 

_‘Slut’s don’t—’_

Master and Dr. Samson have both told Pet that it doesn’t need to be afraid, that there are no Forbidden words. That it has a name. 

It has been practicing for the last couple of weeks to think of ‘Pet’ as not just what it was trying to be but as a name and both Master and Dr. Samson say they were proud of it when uses it as such. 

They both have asked it to think about reclaiming its old name, it’s name from before Q-Q— it’s former Master. It’s even starting to believe that maybe there was a Before. But it’s so hard. 

It thinks to itself, ‘ _It is Cl—’_ it can’t. It knows Master wants it to, but it just can’t. Pet curls tighter into Master, seeking protection and forgiveness.

Clint clinging to Phil is the only thing that keeps him from standing up between the two women and his submissive. He allows himself to squeeze the back of Clint’s neck as he meets the dom’s gaze head on, a move both to reassure Clint and himself and as a declaration to the other dom. Clint is _his_. 

Phil hadn’t expected them to run into anyone who knew either of them, it’s why he had picked a private club at the edge of town. He has to decide if this changes his game plan. 

Phil had tried to let Clint choose his own outfit, but had gotten a stream of ‘if it pleases you, Master’s to the point that he had given up. He’s dressed Clint in what used to be his favorite jeans and a dark grey Henley that’s slightly loose on his frame. Over the last few weeks Clint has slowly been gaining back his muscle mass but he still has a bit to go before he’s back to where he had been. 

Phil’s left the buttons of Clint’s shirt undone below his collar, the slim half inch band of black leather looking delicate around his neck. Phil had left Clint’s shoes and socks with their jackets in the locker room. 

In contrast, Phil had felt the need to armor himself in his best suit; the one he wore the night he recruited Clint. The sleek lines of the dark navy suit flatter his shoulders and waist without drawing too much attention, and he’s gone with a light grey shirt and a darker tie the same grey as Clint’s shirt. 

He’s doubly glad for that armor as he feels the heavy weight of the dom’s stare. She had caught Clint’s flinching and if it hadn’t been aimed at him he would be grateful that someone else is looking out for Clint. 

It takes him a second but then he puts it together, “Monica Rambeau?”

Monica looks slightly surprised, “Clint’s told you about us?”

Clint shrinks in even further with a whimper and then whispers into Phil’s leg, “Sorry, Master.”

“Shh, Pet, you’re doing just fine,” Phil says, stroking Clint’s hair, “I could use a refill. Get yourself another water, too. Ladies, can we get you anything?”

Pet shifts to kneel in Offering, back straight and knees wide, palms high. It flicks its eyes up through the fringe of its lashes and catches the twist of Master’s lips that means he’s proud of his Pet. It feels the last traces of fear slip away at Master’s quiet, “Good boy,” and at the feeling of Master setting the end of its black leather leash, the same scant half inch wide as its collar, across its palms. 

Phil praises Clint, it’s not that his posture is as perfect as always, but for that fleeting moment of eye contact. He’s come so far in his recovery and Phil couldn’t be more in awe at the core strength of his submissive. 

“Pet?” Monica says with scornful disbelief, crossing her arms. 

“Please, Captain, let us get you something from the bar and I can catch you up. Both of you.”

“Tequila?” The blonde, who must be Tabitha Smith asks and Rambeau sighs. 

“Buffalo Trace Old Fashioned and a couple of waters.”

“Boooooo! You’re no fun.”

“Fun now or fun later, Boom Boom, you pick.”

“Oh fine, later. Kick dirt.”

“Pet?”

“Lagavulin 16, Buffalo Trace Old Fashioned, and three waters,” the Pet recites as it gracefully comes to its feet, showing off in front of their audience, “Anything else, Master?”

“No, sweetheart, but take your time.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you Master.”

“Please, sit,” Phil says, gestures towards the couch and chairs. Rambeau takes the far end of the couch and Smith flops into the armchair that’s set at an angle next to that end.

Pet strides away, not wanting to hear what comes next. This excursion to the club is a reward and having to rehash its therapy sessions would be anything but. It’s grateful for the reprieve, knowing that it’s been set to fetch drinks as a temporary escape. It also feels oh-so-good to have an order to follow, something simple and straightforward; nothing to challenge its worldview or make it question its reality. It clings to the leash handle, still warm from Master's hand, as a connection to Master. 

The bar isn’t terribly busy, Nox’s clientele runs towards sedate refinement, with conversation areas spread liberally around the main bar area, soundproof walls hung with dark red velvet and privacy screens scattered throughout the room; though few people appear to be making use of those at the moment. 

The entrance is on the south wall, just to the other side are the receptionist and locker room; to the west is the kitchen, the double swinging doors parting the curtains. To the east there’s a slight opening in the velvet, which Pet assumes leads into the public play area and the private rooms beyond that. 

It licks its lips and feels its pulse increase in anticipation. Soon. It has to be patient, but soon. 

_Clint feels a little thrum of excitement, but it’s not due to the upcoming scene._

_He’s no stranger to public performances of any sort and it’s not hubris to say he always draws a crowd. Hey, he has a mirror, he can see why. If nothing else at least he’s pretty. The flexibility doesn’t hurt either._

_No, the excitement is from being here, in the back room of the club, with Phil Coulson._

_It could also be from the way Coulson’s dressed, comfortable jeans, sneakers that would look pristine if not for the slight wear on the bottoms, a causality of his morning runs, and especially the black button down, sleeves rolled up and top three buttons undone to expose a hint of Coulson’s chest hair_

_Clint’s in that floaty place where everything has started to feel good. Normally it would have him on high alert, but with Phil here he knows he’s safe, that he can relax into it. Phil can handle any threats that may come their way and he won’t let anything bad happen to Clint while he’s Down. He never thought he’d be able to feel so free in subspace._

_Phil heard someone in the gathered crowd murmur, “Too much slack,” and smiles quietly to himself. He could see how it would look that way, but he is far from finished._

_He does one last check of the hard points, as well as an overall check to make sure nothing’s constricted in a way it shouldn’t be and that Clint is comfortable, for a certain definition of comfort._

_Phil makes eye contact with his sub; Clint’s pupils are blown wide and Phil wants to fall into them, but that’s for another time, for now he lets it bolster him, lifting him higher than he already was from the methodical wrap and push and pull of the rope work. Clint gives him a dreamy smile and nods; and Phil begins slowing drawing him up off the floor._

_As he does so, Clint lets his legs and hands fall into position, just as smooth and sure as he had been when they practiced this at home. He places his bare feet flat on the mat and then curls his arms up over his head and his palms down on the mat, pulling the slack Phil had given him until the ropes settle flat against his skin as he curves into a perfect backbend, partially suspended from the ceiling._

_Clint hums lightly as everything falls into place. He feels like he could stay here forever under Phil’s watchful eye. He had already lost track of time but now time seems to be stretching out like taffy, only to spring back so that it feels like Phil is always there with a hand here, or a gentle kiss there._

Pet smiles at the memory as he brings the drinks back to Master and his friends, eagerly anticipating showing off for them.


	13. Chapter 13

“Sometimes—,” Pet has to take a shaky breath, “Sometimes it wonders—”

“Remember what we talked about, Clint?” Dr Samson prompts gently.

“ _I_ wonder if it— _I’m_ — still there. In the Framework. That maybe all of this is still some weird game that Q-Q-,” it breaks off with a frustrated snarl before spitting out the name, “ _Quinn’s_ playing. That this life just exists to make it all the more painful when it’s taken away. But that’s— that’s not the worst.”

Pet picks up the pillow from next to _himself_ on the couch and wraps its— Fuck! _HIS_ arms around it as _he_ draws _his_ feet up on the couch and tucks _himself_ into the corner. As if that ever offered any protection. 

Dr. Samson lets the silence stretch. 

“I…”

Dr. Samson’s face is open, non judgmental, waiting. 

It finally continues in a small voice, “It misses it. Living in the Framework— constant terror aside,” it adds with a wry twist to its lips, “It was in some ways easier. There were a lot of rules that boiled down to one rule, ‘do whatever it takes to make Master happy’. The rules themselves twisted in on each other, and sometimes outright contradicted each other, but there was one core truth. ‘Make Master happy.’ Sometimes it— Sometimes _I_ wish Ph-Ph-Ph— Fuck. It wishes Master would let it live that way. Nothing to worry about but pleasing him. And he’s so much easier to please than Q-Quinn.”

“Have you talked to Phil about this?”

Pet looks away from Dr. Samson’s polished loafers and out the window to the tree lined park. 

~~~

“Hey,” Phil says from the couch, pausing the TV. 

Pet feels numb; cold, shut off and shut down the way it sometimes gets after therapy. It had been a harder than usual session, with Dr. Samson making it use ‘I’ statements and challenging it to not think of itself as ‘it’, all as a process to try and get it back to being what it was Before. 

It shuts the door behind it with more force than necessary and then stalks over to the refrigerator, opening it and then staring inside as if it holds the answers to the universe and not leftovers and beer. 

Phil turns off the TV and pads over towards Clint in his socks. He had changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt after he had gotten home before eating a light dinner of leftover lo mein, knowing he would probably eat again when Clint got home. 

“Pet?” Phil asks, concerned. The refrigerator starts to beep, a low almost bell-like tone indicating it’s been opening longer than normal and Phil cautiously rests his hand on the back of Clint’s neck; nine times out of ten it helps release his coiled tension and Clint will open up or not as he needs to. 

Turns out this is time number ten.

Clint shrugs off Phil’s hand and slams the refrigerator door. Turning, Clint glares at Phil, his eyes meeting Phil’s in a blaze of anger, and no matter how upset Clint is part of Phil rejoices at how far Clint’s come, “Do you even want me?”

“Do I— what are you talking about, sweetheart?” Phil is thrilled to hear Clint say ‘me’, but his obvious distress pulls at Phil’s heart. 

“Do. You. Want. Me?” It asks, forcing itself to use the ‘I’ language it practiced with Dr. Samson, if not the exact sentence.

“What’s brought— of course I want you. I’ll always want you.”

Pet knew Master would say that, but it doesn’t mean he wants _Pet_.

“No, you want him!” Pet gestures wildly, “And it’s not him. Your Pet— _I_ can’t be him. It— _I_ will never be him! So if you’re waiting for some magic little Cl- Cl-,” it practically snarls its name once it’s able to get it out, “ _Clint_ switch to flip and give you back your sub you can forget it because it’s not going to happen!”

Phil’s speechless. Of course he wishes he could get Clint back the way he was, that he could somehow turn back time and undo all of the horrible things that had been done to him, but Phil knows some of the damage is permanent; how could it not be? Even still, Phil sees more and more of the old Clint every day. 

“Q-Quinn killed that Cl—,” Pet grits its teeth and forces itself to continue, “Clint over and over again and eventually it just stuck. He’s dead and _I_ can never, _ever_ , give him back to you.”

“You look like you’re still processing; lets get some food in you and we can talk about this.”

“It’s not hungry,” Pet says, even though it really is; stupid therapy has left it feeling raw and vulnerable and nothing seems right.

“If you don’t want anything in the fridge we could order—”

“It said, ‘It’s not fucking hungry’, _Master_ ,” Clint snarls ‘Master’ like it’s poison in his mouth and it cuts Phil like a knife.

“Clint.”

Pet flinches, but more at the gentle reprimand in Master’s tone than the sound of its former self’s name.

Dr. Samson would call that progress. 

“Go sit at the table,” Clint glares and then stalks over to the small kitchen table, pulling the chair out with a clatter and sitting sullenly with his arms crossed, redirecting his glare to the table top.

“Grilled cheese or pancakes?” They’re two of Clint’s favorites but he remains stubbornly silent, “Grilled cheese it is, then.”

When Phil sets the sandwich and a glass of water in front of him Clint redirects his glare there, and when Phil mildly orders, “Eat,” he shoves the plate across the table. The plate just barely misses the water and is only stopped from falling off the edge by virtue of slamming into the pushed in chair on the other side of the table. 

“That’s enough of that,” Phil says and points down next to his chair, “Grab a cushion and kneel here.”

Clint does as Phil asks, though his body is still tense and he refolds his arms. Phil grabs a knife from the kitchen and then sits next to Clint. He cuts the sandwich into bite sized pieces and holds one down to Clint’s mouth. 

Pet’s lip curls into a snarl and it bites Master’s fingers sharply as it takes the food. Master sighs, Pet knows he can’t let that go, which is exactly why it did it.

“No. You don’t get to bite. That’s cost you your range privileges tomorrow. Do it again and you’ll lose them for a week. Do you understand?”

Clint looks away but nods once sharply and takes the next bite with only his teeth touching the sandwich and chews with a mulish expression. He’s good for Phil as Phil holds the water for him to drink and his face is more neutral with the next bite. 

It feels better as it finishes the sandwich, Master’s steadfast patience doing more to soothe it than any words ever could. It’s no longer hungry or tied up inside and when it swallows the last bite Pet rests its head on Master’s thigh. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“If it pl— No, Master.”

“Thank you for being honest,” he says; Clint’s ‘if it pleases you, Master’s’ have gotten fewer and further between, and Phil makes it a point to praise him each time Clint catches himself. 

Phil runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, willing to sit at the table all night if it makes him happy. 

After a while Clint says, softly, “Your Pet is sorry for biting you, Master. And for the yelling.”

“I know you are, baby. It’s okay.”

“Okay enough to get my range time back,” it asks, peeking up at Master with an impish smile.

Phil smiles and tugs in his hair, “No. But, I will work from home tomorrow. 

Pet wraps its arms around Master’s leg in a hug, burying its head in Master’s thigh. Tomorrow it will get to spend the day at Master’s feet, serving him and reaffirming its place in his life. It’s worth losing its range time and the pet knows it doesn’t deserve him, “Thank you, Master.”

~~~

Pet is making its way down the hall to Master’s office with a cup of fourth floor hazelnut coffee when Agent Crawford stops him with a hand on his chest, “I heard you were spending more time around the Trisk, Barton,” Pet holds back a flinch at the sound of it’s last name. 

It bristles. No one is allowed to touch it if it doesn’t want them too, Master and Dr. Sampson both said so. It’s lessons in body autonomy after the way it fell for Garrett’s deception had been hard won and it feels the anger start in its bones but remains polite, knowing it’s behavior will reflect back on Master.

“It’s good to see you,” his eyes trace up and down Pet’s body in a way that makes it feel exposed, “Looking so well.”

“Don’t touch me,” it sneers, proud of itself for using the right pronoun.

“Now is that anyway to talk to a dominant?” Crawford asks, pushing Pet against the wall and Pet goes with it, not wanting to cause a scene as other agents start eyeing them warily.

“Fuck off.”

Crawford shakes his head, “I can’t imagine what Coulson is doing with such a worthless sub,” someone gasps at Crawford’s words but the words roll off of Pet like air currents, no more impact than a breath of air, “Or maybe Coulson is just a worthless Dom?”

Pet sees red, Master’s coffee falling to the ground with a shatter as it drops it as it pushes Crawford across the hall and forces him up off the ground with a hand around his throat.

Someone tries to pull it away and it backhands them.

“No one gets to talk about Master like that,” it says as it squeezes.

It distantly hears, “Holy shit, somebody get Coulson!”

“Did you see how fast he was?”

“I’m going to help Lee down to Medical; I don’t think anything’s broken but that was a hell of a hit.”

“Pet! Let him go.”

“But Master—”

“ _Let him go,”_ it’s barely a Whisper but it hears a collective gasp from the gathered crowd as the Power of it ripples through them. 

Still, it sneers into Crawford’s face, “Nobody,” it says, shaking him slightly as his fingers claw into Pet’s arm.

“Now,” Master says, just as quietly, but not using his Voice at all. 

Clint lets go and takes a step back, balling his hands into fists, “Master, he—”

“Not here; my office, both of you.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says, not at all respectfully.

“Yes, Sir,” Crawford says hoarsely. 

Phil shuts the door behind him quietly and then sits behind his desk as Clint and Crawford stand in front of it like children called to the principal’s office for fighting in the hallway.

“Sir—,” Crawford starts, cutting himself off when Phil raises a hand.

“There are multiple witnesses, Bill, I don’t want to hear it. I want you to apologize and then you're going on unpaid leave for the next three days and will have to complete the mandatory dynamic harassment class before you’ll be fully reinstated.”

“Mandatory— _he_ assaulted _me!”_

“And I will deal with that as well. Now, you can apologize or you can pack your desk.”

Crawford seems to fluff up, but backs down in the face of Phil’s placid stare.

“Fine! I apologize for insulting you, Barton,” he says before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Pet looks up from the floor to glare at after Crawford, “That’s not—,” it looks over to Master, his face still carefully blank, “He insulted you.”

It feels some of its tension ease at the exasperated look that crosses Master’s face. At least he isn't too angry. Maybe his Punishment— no punishment won’t be so bad. 

“Pet, you’re lucky you’re still on personal leave, you have one week unpaid and will have to complete mandatory anger management training. I don’t think Crawford will push for more or press charges for assault given that he intentionally provoked you but regardless we can’t have something like this happen again.”

“Yes, Master,” it says, doing its best to sound chastised, though it knows it would do it again in a heartbeat, no matter how Master chooses to punish it.

“Alright. I want you to clean up the mess you made in the hallway and then you can come back and kneel next to me while I finish up some work.”

“But Master, what about it’s punishment?”

“Unpaid leave is your punishment, Pet.”

“But Master—,” they say in unison, Clint cutting himself as Phil continues, “All right. You have to spend the rest of the day trying to use the pronouns you’ve been practicing with Dr. Samson. Including how you think about yourself.”

“What… what about when it— I fail?” Clint asks.

“I tell you what, if you honestly try until bed tonight, we can play One Million Kisses before going to bed.

Pet eyes Master warily, this sounds an awful lot like a reward and not a punishment.

“Are you going to argue with me?”

“Of course not, Master.”

“Good. You know where Maintenance is. Let them know you need a mop and bucket and you are cleaning up after yourself.”

Pet nods and it— he turns to leave the office, but not before he catches a smile in the corner of Master’s mouth.

~~~

“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking burden,” Pet snarls and then his hand is at his throat, he rips off his collar and throws it at Phil’s feet, “Don’t wait up.”

Phil’s stunned and by the time he’s recovered Clint’s left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. 

Phil doesn’t remember what had started the fight, or how it had gotten so heated. He wants to run after Clint, track him down, force him to work through this.

**The world is ours.**

Phil shakes his head. He hasn’t heard that echo in months, had hoped it would never haunt him again, but it seems to lay in wait until he has a moment of weakness and then it snaps its jaws at his through once again. 

It’s late when Pet gets home, no longer night but morning. It had taken a while for the pain and fear to ebb. He reaches up and touches his bare throat and shivers. It feels like freedom.

It feels like loss. 

Master is sitting on the couch, a bottle of whiskey is sitting next to a glass with a couple of fingers of the golden liquor.

“You haven’t touched it?” Pet asks. 

“I knew,” Master’s voice cracks; he clears his throat and swallows,“I knew if I started, I would stop, and I had to— I couldn’t—”

His eyes, already red, fill with tears that begin to spill over.

“Oh, Master, I’m sorry.”

“No Pet, I am.”

“We can both be sorry then.”

“I— could we go to— Should I sleep on the couch tonight?”

“No,” Clint says, “Come to bed.”

In the morning, Clint gets on his knees and holds out the collar on his palms in his leash position, though it’s different now as he meets Phil’s gaze head on, “Please, may I have the honor of your collar?”

“Oh, Pet; the honor is mine.”

~~~

“Welcome home,” Clint says from where he’s sitting on the couch, and Phil almost misses it, busy setting his keys on the counter and shrugging out of his suit jacket. 

Then he freezes. 

It had taken a long time to get Clint comfortable sitting on the couch, especially when Phil isn’t there to coax him up, but that’s not what’s especially strange. Usually he’ll find Clint watching TV or reading on a cushion by the couch, or sometimes cooking. All of which are vast improvements over the way he used to wait kneeling naked at the door. 

‘ _Welcome home,_ ’ Clint had said and then _continued to read his book_. No ‘Master’, no sliding down to kneel, just a simple _‘Welcome home_ ,’ and otherwise not letting Phil interrupt him and Phil’s heart melts.

He leaves his suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair at the kitchen table and comes over to sit next to Clint, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves, then loosening his tie before leaning his head against Clint’s shoulder. 

He marvels at Clint’s progress; he’s always been impressed by him, but the way he’s transformed his life over the last few months has exceeded every one of Phil’s expectations. 

He should know by now not to underestimate his sub. 

Clint keeps reading and Phil finds his mind drifting; the next thing he’s aware of is that his head is in Clint’s lap and Clint’s fingers are threading through his hair as Clint continues to read his book. 

Phil smiles at the cover, it’s one of his mother’s. 

“Was it intentional?”

“Was what intentional?” Clint asks, slipping his bookmark in place and setting his book aside so that he can wrap his arm around Phil’s shoulder. 

Phil shifts them until Clint’s lying back with his head on the armrest, Phil propped up over him. 

“I’m so proud of you, Pet,” Phil says, tugging at Clint’s thin leather collar, “Ask me for something. Anything.”

“Anything, M— Phil?”

“Oh, God, Pet,” Phil kisses Clint deeply, his fingers under his collar nest to his pulse and his hand reaching down to grab Clint's ass and hold him close, slotting their bodies together, “Anything. Everything. Name it and it’s yours,” Phil kisses Clint again pouring his soul into it. 

Clint kisses back until he’s breathless and whispers, “Call me Clint?”

~~~

Clint’s been thinking about this for a while, going over designs in his head. He thinks he’s going to go with overlaying fractures on the bands around his wrist, add some broken chains being allure by growing vines that twist up his arms. 

He turns the page in the artist book and catches his breath. 

It’s perfect. 

Well almost. 

The forearm sleeve is a solid black background with a cherry branch twisting up and through the darkness; the pale flowers almost glow, as if lit up from within.

“Hey; can you do this with apple blossoms?” Clint asks.

“Absolutely. I think it would look great. Let me start on some sketches.”

The end design is beautiful, but not as much as the ink itself and Clint’s so happy he decided on this. 

It isn’t breaking apart Quinn’s mark on him but rather changing it to something completely new, something wholly Clint’s, and he realizes in that moment he’s let Quinn go completely. 

The memories from his time in the Framework have faded like an old nightmare and reality of having been under Quinn’s thumb reminds him of his strength. His resilience.

He’s a survivor to his core and there’s nothing the world can throw at him that will ever change that.

The tattoos themselves take several sessions and then a couple months to heal fully but once done they're like a part of him that has always been there just waiting to be revealed. 

~~~

They haven’t been back to Angelo’s, not since that first time, but it’s exactly the same inside. 

This time Clint kneels for the meal; Phil holding the menu between them as they pick out their favorites. 

Before the dessert course Phil gets on one knee next to him to the shocked gasps of the other tables and staff; Phil ignores them and pulls a large flat box out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He opens it to show a slim collar, soft leather hand dyed to a royal purple, unadorned except for a patina black buckle that says:

AS YOU ARE MINE  
LET ME BE YOURS  
WHITHER THOU GOEST   
I WILL GO   
PARI PASSU

“Clint Barton, would you do me the honor of my life, and accept my collar?”

“Oh, Master! Yes! Of course yes!” Clint shouts, launching himself into Phil’s arms and kissing him to the sound of polite applause.

When Clint and Phil have wiped away their happy tears and settled back in place they’re server brings them a piece of tiramisu on the house, “Congratulations! You two look like you were made for each other.”

“I think we were,” Phil says, unable to take his eyes off of his collar around Clint’s neck.

Their home in bed, exhausted from celebrating their joy in each other’s bodies when Clint rubs his finger over the buckle, “What does it mean?”

“What?” Phil asks, his brain foggy with after scene endorphins, not even clear headed enough yet for aftercare.

“Pari passu. What’s it mean?” 

Clint’s worn out in all the best ways, bruises and bite marks covering his body. He doesn’t think he’ll want to move for a week; and why would he when he has Phil right here to dream with. 

Phil nuzzles Clint’s neck, “Equal in all respects.”

“ _Phil_ ,” Clint says, kissing Phil.

Maybe they’re not so exhausted after all. 


	14. Chapter 14

“We’ve got something.”

“Then I’m coming with,” Barney tells Phil over the phone.

“It’s not my call. Not anymore.”

“You gave me your word—”

“It’s his. Do you want to take that away from him? Now? After everything?”

“Christ,” Barney swears low and under his breath, but his reply is firm and full of conviction, “No.”

Phil lets out a small breath of relief, “Come to DC. We can have dinner and you can talk to him face to face.”

“I— okay. Yeah. See you tonight.”

~~~

“The way I see it, you need a team of three.”

Clint worries at his lip, a tell that wouldn’t have been there a year ago. 

“You, Phil,” Barney nods over to where Phil’s doing the dishes, “And me.”

“Barns, no. I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You don’t have to ask, little bro.”

“I… I appreciate it. I do, but—”

“You think I’ve gone soft? That I don’t have what it takes anymore?” Anyone else would read Barney as mildly offended but Clint’s always been good at reading people and Barney’s never been able to hide anything from Clint. 

He’s hurt. 

“It’s not your conviction I question, big bro,” Clint says apologetically, “It’s your conscience.”

“Fuck conscience. I’m still a Barton.”

“You're Garnett,” if he was hurt before it’s nothing compared to his expression now and Clint feels his voice slip into the Midwestern accent of their childhood as if it might be some kind of balm, “You put killin’ behind ya a long time ago, Barns. You got kids; a family—”

“ _You’re_ my family, Clint.”

All three of them pause for a beat, automatically tensing at Barney’s use of Clint’s name, but when it doesn’t phase him, doesn’t hurt; when it’s just his name and not the razor tip of Quinn’s lash, the moment passes and the tension turns to quiet triumph.

Clint looks into his brother's eyes and then tilts his head in acknowledgment at what he sees there. 

He holds out his hand, briefly admiring his sleeve. The tattoo is simple, green and brown branches dotted with white apple blossoms on a solid black background, and it’s all his. 

They grasp each other’s arms and he knows the love and loyalty he sees in Barney’s face is reflected in his own. 

~~~

“You’re clear,” Barney says from the other side of a scope as he takes the last one out with a bullet through the eye. 

Clint has to acknowledge, his brother is many things, rusty isn’t one of them.

He and Phil make it inside the old Hydra compound; it's a honeycombed network of hallways and they have to hide three more bodies on their way to the room that the machine is supposed to be in. 

The Framework. The Chair. The Red Room. The seat of every nightmare Clint’s ever had or ever lived. 

It’s going to be an absolute pleasure turning it into scrap. 

As soon as they download the data.

Unfortunately there’s a complication. 

A… complicated one. 

Strapped to the Chair with a pair of electrodes at his temples is Grant Fucking Ward.

Well, Clint guesses that answers his place in all this.

“Grant!” 

Clint’s grown enough as a person to acknowledge the bolt of jealousy at the depth of emotion in Phil’s voice without letting it affect him. 

“Stop!” Clint shouts before Phil can touch him. 

Phil pauses with his finger inches from Grant’s face and they twitch towards the electrodes but he knows Clint is right, knows that they can’t just rip him out of the Framework; not without risking permanent brain damage. Or worse. 

They had known there was a chance of someone being here, it was the power draw that led them to the base after all; and it’s why they hadn’t wanted to do anything to risk the power being cut. 

He just never imagined it would be Grant.

He should have. After everything with Garrett he _should_ have been prepared for him to be this much of a bastard, but he had hoped on some level that Garrett had honestly cared for Phil’s sub— former sub. 

Phil resists the urge to kiss Grant’s forehead and brushes his thumb across it instead, “We’re going to get you out of there, sweetheart.”

“We’re on a clock, Master,” Clint says, and there’s no jealousy there, only urgency. 

“Alright. I’ll go in and get him.”

“No.”

“No? Pet, I can’t— _we_ can’t leave him here.”

“No, I know. I meant it needs to be me.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“I have the experience in there, I know what the controls can do. It might even give me a little closure. One of us needs to download the data and watch the door.”

“I— you’re sure?”

“I’ll get him back for you; I need you to trust me.”

“I do. I trust you with my life.”

“Then trust me with his.”

Phil grabs Clint by the neck and pulls him in for a desperate kiss, “I do.”

“Okay,” Clint says, “Let’s get me hooked up.”

While Clint sits in the comfortable chair by the control panel, nothing like the Chair Grant is strapped to, Phil plugs in the thumb drive and starts the download.

“One minute,” he says, “Not a second more. If you can’t get him out by then I’m coming in after you. And if it comes down to you or him, you choose you.”

Clint’s not sure what it says about himself, that he likes the way that feels, that in Phil’s mind, Clint comes first.

“It will be fine, Master— _Phil._ I’ve got this,” though his stomach is telling him otherwise. He can’t remember the last time he’d been this terrified. 

“Do I have to make it an Order?”

“No, it’s— Actually, it can’t hurt,” and it will keep him from getting lost, but Clint’s keeping that to himself; Phil has enough to worry about.

“ _One minute, then you_ ** _come back to me, Clint Barton_** _,_ ** _no_** **_matter_** **_what_** ,” the subspace that swirls around him is rich and pure like Ecuadorian chocolate, but he’s able to keep a clear head, months of therapy paying off, bringing him closer to being himself again.

“Yes, Master. One minute real time, then I log out. No matter what,” if he can’t ease Ward out by then, Clint is going to shut the whole thing down. Better free and broken or dead than left behind. Clint’s one of the few people in the world in a position to make that judgement call; and if it keeps him from sleeping easily at night at least it will have company with all the other nightmares. 

He presses the control electrodes to his own temples and suppresses a shudder. 

“Here goes nothing,” he says, meaning ‘everything’ as he flips the switch. 

One second Phil’s standing next to him and the next he’s gone. So’s Grant and the control panel. It’s just him, the comfortable chair, and a cursor flashing at the corner of his vision. Before he can do more than think about it a full menu opens. 

There’s a dial for time dilation and he cranks it all the way up, giving himself all the time he can, and then runs himself through a quick tutorial; the depth and breadth of his control of this reality causes his already nervous stomach to swoop.

He really is a god here.

He teleports to around the corner from where Ward is, not wanting to startle the man by just appearing in front of him.

He’s in a seedy part of a city that feels a little bit like… Clint wants to say Berlin? Maybe with a sprinkling of Hong Kong— or, wait, New York? 

It’s both nondescript and familiar and it makes his skin crawl. 

He turns up the heat a little; it’s freezing, with snow on the ground and his breath frosting the air, and he creates a warm coat around himself, smiling a little as he realizes it’s a replica of Phil’s and he decides to go all the way, changing his tac gear for a tailored suit, knowing the aura of confidence, of channeling Phil, will help his cause.

When he sees Ward his breath catches; he’s in threadbare jeans and beat up sneakers that don’t do anything to keep out the cold and while he has on layered sweaters his arms are wrapped around his middle and he’s shivering. 

He sees Clint and his posture changes, opening up and becoming inviting. He hooks his thumb into his waistband and waits for Clint to get up close before giving him a charming grin, “See anything you like?”

“Come have a drink with me,” Clint says, tilting his head to the club’s door, the sign above it reading ‘Corvin’ as the club is created out of Clint’s memories of Odessa. 

Ward edges down his waistband, exposing a strip of skin to the icy air, showing off a string of fingerprint bruises at his hip and says, “Twenty bucks for twenty minutes; what you do with it is up to you.”

“How much for the night?” He’s got, he checks the timer, just under six hours; it’ll be enough time. It has to be. 

He listens to Ward do the math; how much he needs to make tonight to appease Garrett, the risk of spending the entire night with one dom, what that might entail, and with what Clint’s wearing, how much he can get away with asking for, and then goes higher, figuring they’ll meet somewhere in the middle, “A thousand,” he says daring the john to call him on it, terrified he’ll walk away.

“Inside then,” he says, like it’s nothing, like it’s not twice what Grant thinks he should be asking for. 

Grant hesitates and licks his lip nervously; he’s been screwed over before, “Upfront.”

Clint reaches into his pocket and creates a gold money clip, thick with bills; he peels off five $100 bills and holds it out, “Five hundred up front, the rest after.” 

He puts the clip back in his pocket, hoping he’s not about to get stabbed for it before he remembers how much control he really has here.

He could disappear Ward’s knife but figures it’s worth the risk of him drawing it if it gives him comfort.

This much power is a heady feeling. 

Ward eyes him warily but takes the money, saying, “Guess I’m yours for the night.”

Clint needs to get an idea of how deep this runs, how far under the real Ward is. He can work with this, if he has to he can ease Ward out of the framework like he is and they can reprogram him topside, but his recovery will be easier on him if Clint can lay the groundwork now. 

The john is setting off all kinds of warning bells in Grant’s head but he needs this too much to back down now. If he comes back to his Master and he finds out Grant let the additional $500 for his worthless ass (Clint hides his snarl) slip through his fingers the pimp will— he can’t think about that right now, he has to concentrate on the man in front of him. 

And as long as the guy doesn’t hurt him so bad he can’t walk away, or at least so there aren’t any hospital bills, he might even be able to get a couple days off his feet without having to be in traction first.

Ward tucks then money into his pocket, “Shall we?” He asks as he gestures to the door.

Grant wonders if he can get away with lying to Master, giving him a couple hundred for the night and hiding away the rest in his rainy day fund, trying to save up for the eventual day when he’s all used up and no use to Master anymore. (God fucking damn it; as if Clint didn’t already want to kill Garrett for his own sake.) He decides the risk isn’t worth it. Master always knows when he’s hiding something and the last time Master had found his stash he had broken his jaw (Slowly. Clint’s going to kill Garrett slowly.) and it had been almost six weeks before he could go back to earning easy— or at least _easier,_ money with his mouth.

 _‘So_ ,’ Clint thinks, _‘Deep then._ ’ Ward is 100% convinced of his current identity; Clint’s going to have to play this very, very, carefully. 

Grant is surprised when the john leads him over to a booth in the bar instead of heading into the public play area or the back rooms, but it’s his dime; Grant will follow his lead.

Clint gives Ward the seat facing the door, there’s no one else logged in and Clint has complete control of the environment, he may as well do what he can to put Ward at ease. 

Grant sits down gingerly on the bench, more at the discomfort of not being put on his knees on the filthy bar floor than the layered bruises on his ass, some from earlier in the night, some older.

Clint eases down Ward’s pain; not too quickly or too much; he’ll think it’s something natural, the warmth of the room and the knowledge that he won’t have to go back out into the cold, or something like that. Clint motions to the server and gets a beer for himself and looks expectantly at Ward.

Grant smiles and takes in the expensive suit and tailored gloves; the fact that he handed over $500 without blinking and that it barely made a dent in his wallet; something about the john’s body language screams ‘dangerous’ and ‘in control’ and Grant knows he won’t have to fake his desire. (His fantasies are dark and twisted things that Clint shies away from, trying to give the other sub some sort of privacy.) He orders a ridiculously expensive whiskey, a hint of challenge in his eyes, but the dom just smiles back in approval, something almost like relief in his gaze, followed by a slight frown that’s there then gone. 

Which is a little worrisome, but Grant has five bills warming up his pocket and is in from the cold; if the guy gets off on his whores drinking scotch worth more than Grant normally makes in a night, more power to him. He starts running the angles, wondering what it might take to get this guy to be a regular. 

It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror on a couple different levels; seeing Ward in a similar position to what Clint had been in a lifetime ago, or a couple months, depending on your perspective, seeing his own expressions through Grant’s eyes. Clint adds a set of filters to the input he’s getting from Ward to keep himself from being overwhelmed by the strange feedback loop. 

“Something to eat?” The john asks, like he has all the time in the world, like he doesn’t know exactly what Grant’s good for. Like it’s a _date_.

Grant considers taking him up on the offer. It might make the guy happy and the literal table scraps he’s gotten the last couple of days have left a hollow ache in his gut, but if tonight is going to be rough it will be easier to get through it without a full stomach. 

_‘Well. We can’t have that_ ,’ Clint can’t do anything about Ward’s low thrum of unease, he doesn’t have any control over Ward’s thoughts or emotions, it’s as if they’re read only; and the motor control overrides are intimidating enough that he hopes he doesn’t have to use them; but he can do something about the hunger by introducing it as an outside stimulus and he makes the scotch the server is bringing over as nutritious as a full meal.

“No, thank you, Sir,” Grant says, lowering his lashes demurely.

“Clint,” he says, and there are extra layers of meaning there, but Grant can’t make heads or tails of them.

Clint feels the same strike of pride he always gets when he’s able to use his name; the absence of pain its own form of pleasure. 

Unfortunately, his name doesn’t mean anything to Grant.

As far as Grant’s concerned he’s a stranger and Grant’s a poor kid who grew up with a bad drug habit and a worse choice in doms. He hates his Master/pimp but knows he’s trapped. If he tries to get away Garrett will find him and kill him— from the logs it’s a valid fear; Grant doesn’t know it but that exact scenario has played through at least a dozen times.

The only redeeming feature is that it doesn’t look like he was ever in love with Garrett. 

Small blessings.

Ward’s been hooked up since yesterday; trapped in the hell that is the Framework for over a year. Clint cringes away from the logs, how at first Ward had been complicit, thinking that if he played along he could find some sort of angle, some way out; but Clint can see everything so much more clearly from this side of the controls, and Ward never stood a chance. 

Neither had Clint.

He feels a small thing settle in his chest, the compassion he feels for Ward letting him take a small ounce of forgiveness for himself that he never imagined possible. 

Clint’s also grateful in a twisted way that their raid on the compound pulled Garrett away from such a petty game and not something worse.

Part of him regrets that it will only take a few weeks out of the Framework for Ward’s memories to start to return; some of them would be better off forgotten. 

All things considered, this reality isn’t all bad.

Clint takes a deep breath.

Okay, he can do this. It will be fine. He just has to somehow convince the former love of Phil’s life that he’s not a prostitute but is actually one of the world’s foremost spies trapped by his dom/Clint’s abuser who used to be one of Phil’s best friends in a simulation created by Clint’s former master and a mad scientist, and, oh by the way, Phil is Clint’s Master now. 

All without breaking him.

How hard could it be?

The john— Clint, is staring at him like he’s a puzzle to be figured out or, no, something worse; and Grant can’t have that, can’t have him looking at him like he’s a _person_ , and so he leans forward, pushing his shoulders back and stretching the thin scratchy wool across his chest; he’s not as muscular as Clint, hell, the guy looks like he could fold Grant in half and Grant is already hungry for him, anticipating the new bruises he’ll have to count in the morning. He slides his ankle against Clint’s and uses his most seductive voice, maximizes his sultry eyes and asks, “So, Clint, what do you like?”

Clint’s brain skips a beat and he panics, pausing the simulation and using up too many precious seconds trying to get his thoughts in order, when he’s ready, he unpauses.

There’s an itch in the back of Grant’s mind like he’s missed something and Clint encourages it as he answers Grant’s question, “Independence. Someone who knows what they want and speaks their mind.”

Grant raises an eyebrow, “A brat?”

Clint laughs. It would be a bit hypocritical of him to have a problem with bratting, “Not exactly, but I suppose I like those well enough.”

“Are you looking for a fight?”

Clint sobers, “No,” he says and he knows he’s gone too serious and he softens, “No—,” he stops himself from using Grants name and, oh God, this must be how Phil felt the night they meer in this very club, knowing who Grant is, but not able to let him _know_ he knows, “Hey, so what do I call you?”

Whore. Trash. Worthless—

Clint has to pause again as the words flash through Grant’s mind, afraid he’ll be sick right there at the table. He goes into the bathroom and runs the water, splashing his face and rinsing out his mouth as if it will wash away the words.

He looks at his reflection as he grasps the sides of the sink, “You have to save him. Don’t fuck this up, Barton.”

And it feels good to say it; familiar. It’s not the ‘don’t fuck it up’ dread from his time with Quinn, or even later with its tiny of hope with Phil but, rather, from Before. It’s him. The real him. 

“You’re the Amazing God Damned Hawkeye. You can do anything, and fuck anyone who says otherwise. Now get your ass back out there, they’re counting on you.”

The pep talk does its job and he teleports back to his seat, not a hair out of place.

—Slut. Weird. There’s that feeling again like something’s off. Clint’s staring at him and he knows he has to answer and for some reason he blurts the truth, “Grant.”

“Nice to meet you, Grant, and no, I’m not looking for a fight. I’m just looking to talk.”

Grant doesn’t even try to hide his snort of disbelief, “No one pays a hooker a grand just to ‘talk’.”

Clint smirks and Grant has to catch his breath, whatever else the man is he’s beautiful. It makes Grant want to draw out that expression again and again.

Clint can’t let Grant see how much that flusters him, “I make it my business to defy expectations.”

“Oh, and what is your business, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The smirk is back as he says, “International Man of Mystery.”

Grant laughs, and it’s rich and deep and Clint finds himself to be drawn in, “So like a spy?”

“What’s so funny? You don’t think I look like a spy?”

“Spies are supposed to blend in; be forgettable. No one could ever forget you,” Ward gives him a heated once over.

_‘It’s just flirting, Clint. Get a grip. You’re good at this.’_

Clint returns the appraisal, “Same could be said for you.”

 _‘The expensive stuff really is better,’_ Grant thinks as he takes another sip; it’s taken the edge off all his aches and pains.

“So, besides independent and outspoken?” Grant slips off his shoe and draws his foot up to between Clint’s knees and nudges them apart, “What else?”

Clint grabs Ward’s foot and holds it still for a moment, before pressing his thumb from arch to toes, which curl as Ward moans and says, “Oh, God, do that again.”

Clint does and says, “I’m more interested in you. Tell me about yourself, Grant.”

“Ohh, only if you don’t stop. Your hands are amazing.”

Clint obliges and Ward goes boneless, leaning back in his seat, after a couple seconds Clint says, “I’m holding my end of the bargain,” he squeezes, just to the good side of painful.

“Mmmm, okay, okay. Not much to tell. Poor country boy comes to the city to make it big; didn’t work out like I thought it would.”

“Okay, now how about the truth?”

Grants eyes block open, “I am.”

“No, you’re not. And I don’t have time for lies right now. So, how did you get into the city?” Clint’s pushing, but not too hard not yet. He needs to get Ward to start questioning his reality.

“I… I came,” Grant frowns, “I don’t actually remember.”

“Tell me about your childhood, then.”

“Not much to tell. Dad was a petty criminal, emphasis on petty, and mom was distant when she was drunk and drunk when she was home. Seriously,” he says pulling his foot out of Clint’s lap and slipping his shoe back on, “You’re kink is hearing about shitty upbringings?”

Clint swallows down his guilt; he’s not sure how much of Ward's backstory is pulled from his real life and he doesn’t want to delve for it. For now, he knows better than to push, “I’m sorry. I’m too curious for my own good. Tell me something else then. Tell me one true thing about yourself.”

“Hmm,” Grant watches him warily, “I think you’re smoking hot and can’t wait for you to beat me and fuck me, and call me a dirty whore, not necessarily in that order.”

Clint narrows his eyes; he’s not sure what’s worse, that this is what he’s been programmed to say, or that he really means it. _He_ thinks he’s telling the truth.

“Your turn. Come on, Sir, give me something. I want to know what makes you happy.”

“I like dogs.”

“Dogs? Want me to get on all fours and bark?” Something about the idea turns Ward on and it takes a second for Clint to realize it isn’t necessarily the dog aspect of it, but the subtle humiliation of acting like one, of liking it because he doesn’t like it, and it may be subtle but it runs deep, and it’s so antithetical to everything Phil stands for that he no longer wonders why they broke up but how they were ever together in the first place. 

“Not like that. Just, like, as dogs; forget I said anything.”

“Okay, now answer my real question. You know I meant in a scene. What do you like in a sub?”

Clint has to stop himself from saying, ‘ _I don’t,_ ’ in part not to throw everything off and in part because it’s not actually true. There was one sub. Once. 

But he was nothing at all like Ward; small and soft and… passive; but none of that is why he felt something for Penny and he finds he’s able to be honest after all, “Bravery.”

“Bravery?”

“Someone who isn’t afraid of their fear. Who’s willing to make themselves vulnerable. I like—”

“You have to go!”

“What?” Clint yelps as a thin white man with curling grey hair appears in front of them. There’s a weird sucking sensation and the timer starts to tick down faster and faster, Clint’s tries to pause reality, but if anything it speeds up even more.

At the same time Ward scrambles back into the booth and shouts, “Where the hell did you come from!?”

“I know what you were trying to do here, Agent Barton, and it’s commendable, but unfortunately a failsafe has been triggered and now I need you to save all our lives.”

“Wait, you’re really a spy?” Grant asks.

“Who— Dr. Radcliffe?” This doesn’t make sense, he doesn’t show up as a person, as someone logged on, but he’s also not part of the Framework. It’s like he’s a ghost. A really solid ghost, “How are you here?”

“I don’t have time to explain and even if I could you wouldn’t understand it.”

“You know this guy?” Ward asks.

“Sort of,” Clint says, “What do you mean failsafe?”

“When you logged in, Aida recognized you—”

“Aida?”

“This will go a lot faster if you stop interrupting, Agent Barton. Our hard drives are being erased, if we don’t get out of here the two of you are going to end up brain dead, and, worse, leave me dead dead.”

“What!?” It’s Ward’s turn to yelp.

“You need to log out now, both of you, and then I need you to rip off the top of the console and grab the hard drive slotted into the lower right corner. When you get back to SHIELD— hold on,” he pauses and his image flickers.

“Seriously, someone tell me what the _fuck_ is going on here.”

“Okay, I’ve got us quarantined for now, but it won’t last. Get the hard drive to Dr. Leo Fitz; tell Leo Holden says he was right, and to use the blue one. Not the green one, the blue one. This is very important. He’ll know what to do.”

“Fitz— the Scottish kid in R & D?”

“You need to go!”

Clint turns to Ward, “Okay, so you know the Matrix?”

“Wha—,” Ward starts laughing, “Okay. Wow. You really had me going for a second there. You know you already paid for me, right? You don’t have to do whatever this is?”

“I’m completely serious Ward—

“Wait, how do you know my name?”

“—I’m not so sure about Radcliffe—”

“That’s gratitude for you.”

“—but I’m not willing to risk it if he’s telling the truth. I’m going to log us both out now; you’re— I’m sorry about this but you’re going to wake up strapped in a sort of dentist’s chair sort of thing. I’ll get you out of it as soon as I can.”

“I don’t— enough! Enough. I’m leaving, and I’m keeping the $500.”

The timer is down to double digits now. Fuck. He doesn’t want to do this, but he’s out of options; he’s not sure what the Voice amplification will do for him, seeing as he doesn’t actually have a Marston factor, but then, he doesn’t really have blood in here either. He turns it all the way up and mentally crosses his fingers, “ ** _GRANT_** **_WARD_** ** _,_** ** _I_** **_NEED_** **_YOU_** **_TO_** **_TRUST_** **_ME_**.”

Ward's eyes go dark and unfocused, and his whole body relaxes as he Sinks into subspace like a stone, “Yes, Master.”

Double fuck, that was way too much. Nothing to do for it now; they’ll deal with it on the other side.

“Okay, Grant, I want you to close your eyes,” he does so immediately, “I’m gonna count to three, and then you can open your eyes. You’ll be in a chair and I’ll need you to stay calm and I’ll get you unstrapped as soon as—”

“You have to get the hard drive first, Agent Barton. Please, _”_ Radcliffe begs desperately, “Please, you have to save us.”

“Okay— wait, us?” Except Radcliffe is gone and the time is almost out, “Fuck. Fine. 1. 2. 3.”

“Clint?” Phil asks, “What’s going on? It’s only been a couple of seconds, did you get— what are you doing!?”

Clint pulls up the corner of the console and if Radcliffe’s right there’s no time for finesse, he rips out the hard drive, “Radcliffe was there. But kind of not. If he’s right that thumb drive is probably going to be useless, but this,” he holds up the hard drive, “Will be priceless.”

“M—Master?” Ward calls out, his eyes dilated and unfocused, still deep Under from Clint’s hasty Command.

“Grant!” Phil says, rushing to Ward’s side and unbuckling him, “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

“Where… where’s Master,” he slurs.

“We think Garrett split when we showed up.”

“No. No not Garrett— Master!” He calls out, his tone changing from anxious to relief as Clint reaches him and starts working on the buckles on the other side of Phil.

“Master?” Phil asks.

Clint looks over Grant to Phil and shrugs helplessly.

“Oh, Clint. What did you do?”

~~~

They’re on the ‘jet, flying over the Atlantic when Phil comes up behind Clint and rests his chin on Clint’s shoulder.

“How is he?” Clint asks. 

Ward had still been halfway under when Clint had slipped away to the other end of the ‘jet about an hour ago, saying he needed to stretch his legs but really needing to put some distance between him and his mistake. 

And his past. 

“Sleeping. I think Barney tired him out with circus stories.”

“Well, he’s had a lot of practice perfecting them for the kids.”

“How long was he in there?” Phil asks quietly.

“Real time, less than a day, relative over a year. Garrett,” the name is like glass in his veins and he pushes down a memory of being on his knees in a cold Florance alley, Phil crumpled behind him as Garrett used his mouth, “Has him convinced he’s a prostitute, but let him keep most of his identity and sense of self. He should be easier to deprogram than I was and I don’t think he’s the same risk to himself as most of the others we’ve found.”

“That’s good news, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is, it’s just…”

“Just?”

“He thinks I’m his Master. I don’t— I’m not—,” Clint sighs and burrows his head in his hands and then looks up sharply at Phil, “You do it.”

“What?”

“When I was under Quinn’s Control, your Command freed me from him.”

“And made you far more dependent on me than has been safe for either of us.”

“Yeah, well, better you than me.”

“No. No, I don’t think that’s true. With Grant’s and my history, that has too much potential to go bad, really bad. You’ll be fine. I trust you, and so does he.”

 _‘That’s the problem,’_ Clint thinks, but doesn’t say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapters (two chapters and a short epilogue, really) will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Oh, I’m so excited!


	15. Chapter 15

Phil pulls the rental car up to his parents drive, hardly believing it’s only been a year since the first time he brought Clint home. 

So much has changed, but so much has stayed the same. 

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Clint says, though he’s kind of talking to himself and Phil as much as he is Grant. This is new territory for all three of them, for all that it shouldn’t be. 

“I’m not,” Grant says, though when Clint looks back between the seats he sees Grant’s hands unclench as he forces them to lay flat on his knees, and Clint catches his eye, “Fine, maybe a little. But look at this place. I don’t belong here; I’m a cheap—”

“Grant!” Phil objects. 

“Apologies, your highness. But I know what I am.”

“Grant,” Master’s voice is quieter, softer, but has the same steel running underneath as Coulson’s does.

“Sorry, Master. Sorry, Sir. I just—”

“I was scared my first time, too. And my second first time,” Clint says, trying to offer the sub— _his_ sub, for all his sins, some comfort. 

Phil chuckles, “I remember the first time I brought Grant here. There wasn’t a drop of fear in him but I thought I was going to faint.”

“You?” Grant and Clint say, looking at him.

“Grant was the first sub I brought home where it really mattered what my family thought.”

“Except Kate and Peter,” Clint laughs.

Phil makes a sour frown, “Even them, at the time. I know better now. And they had loved Grant, though I guess what they really loved was rubbing it in my face how much better he was than me.”

Grant scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

Phil knows Grant still thinks Garrett had lured him off the streets and into that Austrian bunker, that while the Framework had been real, being a super spy was a shade too far; that Clint and everyone else are fucking with him for their own amusement. 

They had thought that Grant having so much autonomy would make it easier to deprogram him but it seems to have made it perversely harder as he clings to the familiar. 

Phil thinks it might be because deep down, Grant prefers the fiction to reality. 

Great. Now Coulson is going to try to get Grant to remember his supposed old life again. The man has been relentless the last couple of weeks, way worse than Master.

He’s saved by a woman in a hideously sweater waving from the door, a baby with a dark shock of hair balanced on one hip.

Fuck. Children. 

“Enough lollygagging!” Shelly shouts from the front porch, “It’s freezing out here.”

Grant may not know much but he knows he shouldn’t be around kids. 

What was Master thinking?

He should have left Grant back at the Triskelion, not dragged him here to this Hallmark card.

Phil gets out and walks around to the trunk. He shouts back, “No one is making you stand out in the snow, Shells.”

Clint gets out of the car and opens Grant’s door, “Come on, buddy, I promise they won’t bite.”

Phil gives him a look.

“Though watch out for Kate and Peter. They’re assholes. Especially Peter.”

Grant makes a considering, “Hmm,” that Clint doesn’t like the sound of but he lets it go. 

They bundle up all their luggage and make their way up the shoveled walkway where a taller, svelte woman with an equally obnoxious sweater is holding on to the hand of a toddler, reaching with her free hand up towards the baby. 

“I see you all got my presents,” Clint smirks, picking out the bright blue TARDIS hidden in the riot of colors of Shelly’s sweater and the cartwheeling calico kitten’s on Simone’s.

“They’re perfect, Clint,” Shelly says, bussing his cheek with a kiss, “It’s so good to see you again, Grant,” she says pulling him into an awkward one arm hug, the baby burbling between them. 

At least, _he_ thinks it’s awkward, no one else does. 

“This is my sister-in-law, Simone, and this little monster is Frannie,” Clint says, scooping up the toddler and blowing a raspberry on her cheek, making her giggle, she had Simone’s dark skin and the Barton deep blue eyes, her dark curly hair pulled into two puffballs on her head, tied with red and green ribbons.

“Clint, Phil,” Simone says, letting go of the sticky hand she had been holding, “It’s nice to meet you, Grant. I would shake your hand, but someone has been letting my daughter eat raw cookie dough,” she says disapprovingly.

“Oh, Simone, you worry too much,” Dad says as he comes up behind her and swats her with a dish towel, “My kids grew up licking the bowl and they turned out great.”

Simone huffs, “Sorry for the crowd. Francis is at the tail end of her terrible twos and heading into her terrible threes. She’s baby obsessed and just won’t leave Scott alone.”

“Oh, Scottie loves it,” Shelly says, handing the 10 month old off to her delighted grandfather in order to pull Phil into a real hug, “Welcome home, Cheese.”

“Spoiling grandbabies is the prerogative of grandparents everywhere,” Robert says, reaching out to Frannie while balancing Scott on his hip as if he were forty years younger, a sparkle in his whiskey colored eyes and it fills Clint with some undefinable emotion to see Phil’s dad claim Simone and Barney’s rugrat as one of his own. 

“Come in boys, you can help with the cookie packages. Noah and his crew won’t be in until later tonight and the girls are out doing some last minute Christmas shopping. They’re going to pick up Chinese on their way in, so call them if you have any special requests. Meanwhile, I’m done with the sugar cookies, Princess, and I need your help.”

“Hep! Hep, hep!” The toddler says, not quite having the hang of L’s yet, and Grant has to admit, it’s kind of adorable. 

They make their way inside to the smell of fresh baked cookies and pine, the Christmas tree just set up today and still needing to be decorated. Barney’s other kids, Charlie and Martin, are camped out in front of the TV playing Mario Kart.

“Doing cookies a little early this year, I see,” Phil tells his dad.

“Young man, if you think I’m going to get this year's cookies out _and_ get the clearing set up for your collaring ceremony at the same time—,” Dad cuts off distracted by Frannie’s lunge for the cookie bowl, catching it before she pushes it and a tray of decorated cookies off the counter, “Frannie, no, let Papa,” somehow wrangling toddler, bowl, and cookies with ease.

“Phillip, you’re home,” an elegant woman, almost as tall as Master sweeps in from a room just behind the unadorned tree, “How was your flight?”

She pulls Phil into a hug, and then Clint, “And you, Pet? How are you doing? You’re looking much better.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Feeling better, too. And you know my submissive, Grant.”

“Of course, welcome back,” she hugs Grant, who looks stiff, but not actually uncomfortable and Clint decides he doesn’t need saving, “Phillip told us you caught the same thing Clint had at the beginning of the year; it looks like the doctors were right and the amnesia was only temporary?”

Clint can tell Phil gets his dry tone from Julie, she never actually bought their story, but she’s willing to let the polite fiction stand for as long until and unless they want to let her know what really happened.

“Yes, um, Ma’am,” Grant says, looking to Master for guidance as _‘you don’t belong, you don’t belong, you don’t belong,’_ thrums through him in time to his heartbeat.

He knows Master wanted to leave him here with the Coulson’s while he goes on his honeymoon, but Grant has convinced him he would be okay back on the couch at Master and Coulson’s apartment. He had lost the argument for staying there over Christmas, and though Master had gotten a funny look on his face when Grant had promised him he wouldn’t steal anything or go back to hooking while they were gone, he doesn’t think that is why Master insisted a piece of gutter trash like him come to his collaring ceremony.

“Well, we have you on one of the couches downstairs with Kate and Peter; Allison will take one of the couches up here.”

“Um,” Grant feels himself blush, and then feels a thread of excitement at his embarrassment and the thrumming gets louder, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Oh, not you, too. Pet, I see you’re a bad influence on Grant; both of you, please, call me Julie.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Clint says with a cocky grin; Mom just shakes her head and sighs.

“Children! These cookies aren’t going to box themselves.”

“Yes, sir!” Coulson sings back and Grant sees what Master sees in him in that moment, a spark of laughter in his eyes as he goes to obey his father.

Grant never had a relationship like that with his own father; the Senator has been as cold and distant as a statue.

Wait.

Senator?

He has a weird double vision of his perpetually out of work, more criminal than not, father and the same man, proud and imposing standing at a podium addressing a cheering room decorated in red, white, and blue streamers. 

_“Thank you, thank you,” Senator Christian Ward smiles to the crowd and waves, his wife Anna at his side, his son’s Grant and Thomas behind him. Grant’s in an tuxedo with an uncomfortable formal corset vest and a shirt collar so tight he can feel it digging in to his throat, but he doesn’t dare try to pull it away, knowing that no matter how good a mood the Senator is in, it will mean the belt later if he makes a bad impression, or even worse gets caught by the press, “I’ve been proud to serve as you senator for the last four terms, and look forward to serving you for as long as the great state of Massachusetts.”_

_Of course, in the end it didn’t really matter, he got the belt anyway. But it was worth it, it kept his father off of Thomas, and if Grant could protect him from their father he knows he’ll have done at least one good thing in his life._

Grant shakes. Outside of the whole senator thing— Grant’s never worn a tux in his life— it matched up to his real beatings... or is Master right? Are any of his memories real?

“You doing okay there, bud?” Master asks, a knowing look in his eye.

“I— yes, Master,” he starts, then changes course, “Actually, I’m a little jet lagged. Would it be okay if I took a nap.”

“Of course. Help me down with our luggage and then you can use Master’s room; no one will disturb you.”

“Thank you, Master.”

When he’s alone he takes out his phone, the one with what he had thought were photoshopped pictures, but now he wonders, and he searches ‘Senator Christan Ward Massachusetts’ and clicks on the images. 

There, several years back at a re-election party is teenaged him standing behind his parents; Tommy next to him fidgeting with his too tight tie, Grant looking like a serious, if younger, copy of his father.

The phone shakes and the image blurs and he rests his head on his knees and he cries, both for the boy he had been, and the boy he had thought he was. 

~~~

It’s Christmas morning, the presents unwrapped and the orange frosted cinnamon rolls devoured; the last of Robert’s to die for coffee gone. Clint smooths down the front of his already perfectly smooth corset vest, the royal purple a perfect match for his collar, now on a white velvet pillow ready for a radiant Allison to bring down the aisle. 

His pants and shirt and pure white, the shirt sleeves are lose and flowing, gathered to French cuffs at his wrists, buttoned with diamond cuff links, gifted to him by Robert.

Phil will be in his tux, tailored perfectly, black jacket and pants, white shirt, and just a touch of gold at the pocket. Shelly and Laura will be in a purple witness’s dress, long sleeved and ankle length in deference to the weather. 

“Relax, little bro,” Barney says as he finishes hooking together his own gold corset vest, his shirt and pants black, his cufflinks onyx chevrons, “You look perfect.”

“Are you sure you want me—”

“Yes!” Clint forgets about his own nervousness and helps Grant with his own gold vest, “Grant, we both want you as part of our ceremony. I know you don’t remember anything yet,” Grant’s eyes dart away, a guilty look flashing across his face and Clint knows he _has_ remembered something and it’s like a Christmas/collaring present all wrapped together. He doesn’t push, knowing not all memories are good memories, “But someday you will, and you’ll be able to look back on this differently. For now, try to enjoy yourself, okay.”

“Pot, kettle,” Master’s brother says, and hands Clint his crown of hot house apple blossoms. 

“I am going to enjoy myself. I can be nervous and happy. Things can be two things, big bro.”

“Yeah,” Barney says, looking at Clint and Grant and smiling, “Yeah, they can.”

~~~

“God, I can’t believe Phil’s marrying that little slut.”

“God, I can’t believe he managed to catch Grant and Clint. Sluttiness aside they’re both gorgeous subs.”

“He must have something on them. No way does a Mute like him—”

“ ** _Quiet_** _,”_ Phil’s Voice is cold steel as he comes around the corner and Peter’s hands go to his throat. Phil turns his glare on Kate who puts her hands up and takes a wary step backwards, “If either of you do _anything_ to ruin this for Clint I will Silence both of you for the rest of your lives. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Kate says with a slight tremor, her voice barely a whisper; Peter can only nod having gotten the full force of Phil’s Order. Phil knows he won’t be able to speak for the rest of the day, if not longer. 

Both of them are clearly terrified. 

Good. 

~~~

The clearing is beautiful in the early afternoon sunlight, the trees hang with icicles, but it’s warm with the heaters subtly arranged around the assembled chairs. 

Shelly and Laura are standing next to him, and Mom and Dad are in the front row on his side, Derek next to his Dad, Scott sleeping in his arms, Erica next to him. Behind him are Noah, Chris, Kate, and Peter. 

On Clint’s side are Simone, Frannie in her lap playing with a small stuffed bunny, Bobbie Morse and her submissive, Hunter and Clay Quartermain. Behind them are Jasper, Maria, May, and Fury.

The aisle between them is blanketed with pale and delicate apple blossoms, leading up to a white kneeling cushion hand embroidered by his Dad in purple and gold. 

Off to one side is a string quartet playing something soft and sweet, and behind him to his left is the priest. 

Their friends and family are chatting quietly and Shelly bumps her shoulder into Phil’s, “You ready?”

“Absolutely.”

The music suddenly changes at some unseen que to Pachelbel's Canon, and all eyes turn towards the clearing’s entrance.

Charlie and Martin come first, the boys matching Barney and Grant wearing flowing gold shorts and black pants; the twelve and nine year old’s expressions are a mix of serious and proud as they scatter more flower petals.

Allison comes next, her dark braided with apple blossoms, her dress a match to Shelly and Laura’s, solemnly carrying Clint’s collar on an unadorned white velvet pillow. She’s followed by Grant, looking nervous, and then Barney, pride evident in every step. He looks over to his dominant and youngest child and waves back at the little girl, the bunny hanging from her mouth as she chews on one of the ears. 

Once Barney is in place next to the priest the music melds into Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and Clint steps into the clearing. Phil gasps and has to blink away tears at his beauty and his strength. 

When Clint reaches him, he says, “Oh, Phil,” and brushes away a tear with his thumb. Phil turns his head and kisses Clint’s palm before taking his hand and helping him kneel. Not that he needs any help, graceful as he is. They turn to the priest, and the music fades to silence. 

“You have come together in this holy place so that the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of God and our community. Christ abundantly blesses your love, he strengthens you so that you may assume your duties to each other in mutual and lasting fidelity.

“We have come together to witness the joining of these two lives. For them, out of the routine of ordinary life, the extraordinary has happened. They met each other, fell in love, and are Declaring their love with these vows. Passion may fade, but true love is something far more; it is their desire to love each other for life and that is what we are celebrating here today.

“Phillip, Declare your commitment to your submissive.”

“I, Phillip Jay Coulson, offer this collar as a symbol of my commitment to love you, cherish you, honor you, and protect you for all my remaining days.”

“Clint, Declare your commitment to your dominant.”

“I, Clinton Francis Barton, accept your collar as a symbol of my commitment to love you, cherish you, honor you, and serve you for all my remaining days.”

Phil lifts the collar with shaking hands, fumbling with it as he buckled it around Clint’s neck. Clint takes his hand and kisses his palm the same way Phil had, all the more touching for being unplanned. 

“Phillip and Clint, I would ask that you always treat yourself and each other with respect, and remind yourselves often of what brought you together today.

Give the highest priority to the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness that your joining deserves. When frustration and difficulty assail your commitment to each other- as they do to every relationship at one time or another - focus on what still seems right between you, not only the part that seems wrong.

“This way, when clouds of trouble hide the sun in your lives and you lose sight of it for a moment, you can remember that the sun is still there. And if each of you will take responsibility for the quality of your life together, it will be marked by abundance and happiness.

“Phillip, it is your duty to Claim your submissive before God and all assembled here.”

Instead leaning down to kiss Clint, Phil breaks tradition and takes Clint’s hands, raising him until he’s standing next to Phil, and then he leans up to capture his kiss, Clint bowing his head to meet Phil’s lips with his own, reaching up at the last minute to catch his crown of flowers.

Their friends and family applaud, Barney whistles through his teeth, and Frannie squeals in delight as the quartet begins to play Vivaldi’s Spring. Phil and Clint look out over their friends and Phil joins their hands, kissing Clint’s knuckles. He sees Mom do the same with Dad.

Instead of walking back down the aisle with Clint behind him by the traditional three steps, they walk side by side, hands clasped together.


	16. Chapter 16

They’re on a tropical beach of a privately owned bungalow on Barbuda, Phil’s rubbing sunblock into Clint’s warm golden skin, tracing the welts from his whip, his fingers dipping below the waistband of Clint’s barely there lavender trunks when Phil’s phone rings. 

“Aw, phone, no,” Clint whines.

Phil brushes sand off of it as he checks the caller ID, “Fury,” he answers, telling Clint who it is. Clint sits up and starts packing their stuff aware that Fury wouldn’t call Phil unless he needed him to come in. 

Honestly, he’s surprised they got the five days that they did.

“Fitz got Radcliffe and Aida up and running. We think we’ve located Quinn’s current base of operations.”

“We’re on our way.”

~~~

Buenos Aires is warm this time of year, being the middle of summer, and Phil can feel his sweat soak through his loose short sleeved linen shirt and into his tac vest; Clint looks impossibly cool, his arms bare, he’s wearing his finger tabs but has skipped the bracer, his tattoos fully on display. 

Quinn’s base is beneath a defunct meat processing plant; Clint’s sure if you track all the Shell corporations back it belongs to Quinn.

It’s just him and Phil, Fury hadn’t called them because it was Quinn but because they were the closest.

They end up fighting their way through a small army, all of them in green uniforms with yellow piping and a skull with six tentacles emblazoned on the arm. The first few are kill shots but when they try to take one alive, before Phil can give him a single Order, he shouts, “Cut of the head and two more will rise!” Then bites something, foams at the mouth, and dies.

They’ve split up and Phil thinks they’ve mostly cleared the place when a shot rings out and a bullet nearly clips Phil’s ear.

“You never should have brought him here, Phil,” Garret calls out, “Quinn’s going to take you both. And when he does he’s going to let me borrow your boy; it will be just like old times. I think I’ll make you watch this time.”

Phil doesn’t take any chances, “ ** _JONATHAN_** **_GARRETT_** ** _,_** ** _DROP_** **_YOUR_** **_WEAPON_** **_AND_** **_COME_** **_OUT_** **_WITH_** **_YOUR_** **_HANDS_** **_UP_** ** _!!_** _”_

There’s a delay and warning bells go off but Phil can’t pinpoint why. Garrett’s hands are up as he steps around a large machine attached to one of the conveyor belts that winds throughout the building. 

Garrett smiles a shark tooth grin and Phil feels a bee sting at his neck. He reaches up and pulls away a dart, “Fuck! Clint,” Phil tries to warn him but whatever it is works fast and he find himself sliding to the floor.

~~~

Clint is frantic as he tries to find Phil. The building seems like it’s empty now, bodies scattered on the floor and over conveyor belts. 

“ ** _CLINT_** **_BARTON_** ** _!_** ** _COME_** **_OUT_** ** _,_** ** _COME_** **_OUT_** ** _,_** ** _WHEREVER_** **_YOU_** **_ARE_** ** _!_** _”_

He feels the Order break against him and try to sweep away his will. He falls to his knees as he fights it. 

No. 

Don’t fight it. 

Let it move through and past you. 

The leaf gets taken by the current, the stone sinks, but the fish _swims._

He feels subspace eddy around him, become part of him, and just like that the compulsion is gone. 

He’s a little woozy as he stands and calls out, “You’ll have to do better than that, asshole!”

“Well, well, well. Somebody’s got their mojo back. How delightful. It will make it that much more satisfying to watch Quinn crush you again.”

“Not gonna happen!”

Garrett laughs and it chills Clint to the bone, “No? I think you’re going to beg him to do it. I think you would crawl through broken glass and offer him that sweet slut mouth, or your worthless ass.”

“What makes you say that?”

Keep him talking. The acoustics in here or terrible but if he can just pinpoint Garrett’s location this will be over. 

“Because we have Phil,” Clint’s blood freezes, “Maybe if you’re good we won’t kill him. Maybe we’ll just load him into the Framework with you so you can watch us tear him apart and put him together until he’s just another worthless slut like—”

Garrett’s voice dies, as does the rest of him, Clint’s arrow finding his throat, and Clint feels a moment's regret for not being able to use his knife to do it right. 

To do it slow.

Quinn’s next but he doesn’t feel the same drive to kill Quinn like he had Garrett and he realizes he just doesn’t care about Quinn anymore. He’s kept up to date on the various mission briefs but that’s all Quinn has become, just another mission. A job to do, a monster to put down, and then move on to the next one. 

He wonders what made Garrett different and Clint realizes it’s the level of betrayal, not for Clint’s sake but for Phil and Grant. His Master and his submissive; both of them had loved Garrett in their fashion and finding out who he really was hurt them in a way he couldn’t hurt Clint.

He pulls out one of Garrett’s earbuds. It had an odd texture, almost viscous and when he puts it in his ear he feels it mold to perfectly seal it from any outside sound. 

This is bad. 

No wonder none of Quinn’s minions reacted to Phil’s Orders, it wasn’t that they couldn’t hear him over the shooting and the alarm, they couldn’t hear him at all.

The ear bud in place he hears Quinn’s voice, curiously flat, “— ohn! Come on Garrett, report! Do you have the little slut or not?”

“Not,” Clint says. 

There’s a slight delay and then Quinn says, “I have something of yours, slut. You should know by now you have nothing I can’t take away. Drop your weapons and make your way to the kill room. There’s a camera outside the door, when you get to it, put your hands up and turn around slowly. If I even think you’re going to come in armed I’m turning Coulson here into a pin cushion.”

“Clint?” He hears Coulson ask, his voice as flat as Quinn’s, “Clint, run— urk.”

“Straight back, then to your left. Take the next right to the door at the end of the hall and then smile for the camera.”

Following the instructions Clint makes his way to the back room, stark white, the only color in the room are the rivulets stained the color of old blood that lead from the edges of the room to the drain under the Chair that Phil is strapped to. He has a collar around his neck and Quinn behind him, knife pinpricking Phil’s skin just below the tight black leather.

“I’ve spent so much time thinking about all the things I’d do to you once I got you back.”

Clint refuses to let that shake him, refuses to let his mind even think of going down that path. All his focus is on Quinn’s body language and the knife he has at Phil’s throat, nothing left to spare for the strange dissonance of Quinn’s words.

“That’s funny. I haven’t been thinking about you at all.”

Quinn, flinches, a thin line of blood trickling down to soak into Phil’s honeymoon shirt just below the collar he’s wrapped around Phil’s throat and it’s wrong, it’s all wrong but that too gets pushed off into its own little compartment to be dealt with later.

There was a bit of a delay in his reaction and when Clint looks closer he can tell Quinn is wearing the same ear plugs Garrett had been. He isn’t hearing anything directly; they’re getting an automated feed, their conversation stripped of all Vocal markers. That’s why Quinn’s voice sounds strange, Clint still has in Garrett’s ear bud in one ear and he’s getting an echo.

“You’re lying, and you never could lie to me, worthless slut.”

“Not so worthless, I’m offering you a trade,” Clint holds out his empty hands, “Release Phil and I’ll go with you.”

“You would trade your life for his?”

“I’ve died a thousand thousand deaths. What’s one more?”

“He’s worth that much to you?”

“Clint,” Phil whispers in horror, his eyes slightly glazed, “Don’t.”

“Let him go.”

“And how do I know you aren’t just using this as an excuse to try and kill me.”

Clint’s smile is full of a promise of retribution, not for each of those thousand thousand deaths but for the knife he has at Phil’s throat, “Oh, I absolutely am,” Clint cocks his head to the side, “Which is the real reason you’re going to say ‘yes’.”

“Take off his collar. I think I’ll replace it with one of barbed wire.”

Tears fall from Phil’s eyes, Quinn tightening the collar and cutting off his air. He looks devastated as the collar slips from Clint’s neck. 

Clint knew this moment was coming the second he saw that collar around Phil’s throat, feeling the weight of his own like an embrace, it came to him; he knew how he was to kill Quinn. From there it was just a matter of maneuvering Quinn into place and relying on Phil to play along. 

Phil’s shaking his head now, pain etched across his face and Clint silently promises to make it up to him over the rest of their lives, and for the first time he doesn’t have to remind himself that he only gets one shot, there will be no reset. This is really reality, he knows this is his life, his true life, and even more importantly, it’s Phil’s. 

“Drop it.”

Phil sees Clint struggle with the order, not a hint of command behind it. 

“ ** _I_** **_SAID_** **_DROP_** **_IT_** ** _!”_**

 ****The strip of royal purple leather falls as if from numb fingers as Clint’s eyes dilate; as much as Clint has been working to get back his old resistances it looks like he’s not even fighting it.

Phil thrashes and, for just a second, Quinn’s grip weakens and Phil prays it’s enough.

“ _ **Clint** ”, _ Phil breaks every rule, every promise he ever made to Clint or himself, using his Voice in a way that he knows will destroy them both, even if it’s the only way Clint will survive. The collar Quinn has around his neck is so tight he can barely breath and it takes all his effort to Command, _“_ ** _RUN_** _.”_

He thinks that as much as it’s damned him, as much as he knows it will hurt Clint when he shakes off the Compulsion, it's worth it because Clint will be free. 

Free of them both.

It’s worth Quinn slitting his throat. 

But instead of running, he shakes his head as if surfacing from a deep dive, Phil’s Voice breaking Quinn’s hold and before he can blink Clint’s hand is moving and then Quinn drops behind him, the knife gone and the collar at his throat merely uncomfortable instead of life threatening.

“Clint?” Phil asks in wonder as Clint rushes him and starts unbuckling him from the Chair.

“Don’t you ever, EVER Tell me to run again, do you hear me?”

“I— what? What just happened?” He stands out of the Chair and looks on in concern as Clint does something to Quinn that makes a squelching sound that turns his stomach and Phil realizes he’s pulling out whatever he threw into Quinn’s eye and then brain.

“Gross. This is going to take forever to get clean.”

Phil limps over to Clint’s collar laying on the stands floor and picks up the purple strip of leather. He pulls off the collar from around his neck and strips off the buckle, slipping it on to Clint’s collar. 

Clint watches him with a bemused smile, Quinn’s corpse forgotten. 

“In the meantime,” Phil kneels before him, “Will you do me the honor of wearing my collar?”

“Until the day I die,” Clint says, pulling Phil up and into a kiss and Clint knows, much more than being willing to die for Phil, he wants to live for him.

This is the only life Clint’s got and it will be his honor to spend the rest of it walking side by side with Phil.


	17. Epilogue

Phil sets a folder down in front of Master and Grant, sitting on the other side of his desk. If either of them are surprised he called them both in, neither let’s it show.

“I have a special project for the two of you.”

“Oh?” Master asks, popping his hideous grape bubble gum as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, but Grant can tell Phil has his full attention.

“Yes, I’m reassigning both of you to work together.”

“So I’m back on Assignments?” Grant asks; things are different between him and Phil now, they would have to be, but unlike Master, Phil has an over protective streak a mile wide.

Phil shakes his head, and he’s hiding a laugh, the smug bastard.

“You’re giving me to Maria?” Clint tried not to let the betrayal he feels into his tone, “I’m not sure Task Force—”

“Also ‘no’.”

“Then what is this, Coulson?” Clint asks, letting his irritation show. Phil knows Clint only uses his last name when he’s ready to lose his temper.

“Recruitment.”

“Wait. Really?” Clint asks, peeking up.

“There’s a pair of assassins we want to go after. Threat assessment, with possible recruitment or elimination; it will be your call,” Phil tells Clint, “Grant will go as back up and advisement. If you do recruit one or both of them, Maria and I will also want your recommendation as to whether they’re more suited to Assignments,” he nods at Clint, “Or Taskforce,” he nods at Grant.”

“You can’t mean the Winchester’s,” Master says with raw disbelief, and Grant knows there’s some history there; he has that tension around his eyes he always gets when he talks about the Framework.

“No,” he indicates towards the folder and Clint picks it up.

“No. Way. No futzing way.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, waiting for Clint to hand the folder off to Grant.

It’s only a couple pages, the top holding tow graining images, one the profile of a red head, just her cheek and the tip of her nose visible, the other of a sniper, all in black except his shining metal arm.

Black Widow and the Winter Soldier.

Grant’s eyes get as big as dinner plates.

“Sounds fun. Where do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. We made it. I think I managed to tie up all the loose ends, let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for accompanying me on this journey, and especially for all your kudos and comments. Y’all got me through some pretty rough spots there.
> 
> At some point I may do a couple small stand alone fics in this ‘verse, like the first time Phil whips Clint, or if I finally make a decision and commit to either Phil/Clint/Grant or have a platonic scene with Clint and Grant. (Feel free time vote in the comments.)
> 
> I think I have a good idea for the sequel with Nat and Bucky (I’m my head, Phil was going to collect the whole set of formerly brainwashed sub assassins, but I think it’s more that Clint collects them.)
> 
> In the meantime, I’m hard at work on my Charity Hawktion fic, and then I’ll wrap up my Undercover BDSM Fake Relationship Sub Phil (Bound to Get Together), because why write one trope when you can write them all.
> 
> PS: For anyone wondering what happened to Pretty White Ships, it was small enough that I decided it worked better as additional chapters on Ones That Come Easy. I’m using the title now for the Nat and Bucky sequel.
> 
> Once again, thank you, thank you, thank you for all your kudos and comments. Your support has meant the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I am terrible at tumblr; it used to be my main fandom space but then my brain broke and I can’t keep up with it anymore.
> 
> I’ve set up accounts at the links below, I am going to try to keep all three updated .
> 
> Twitter: @ParaprosdokiaCC  
> Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Patreon: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia


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